


Sentiment

by cheshirecat101



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Captivity, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Fake Character Death, Falling In Love, First Love, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, johniarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:24:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecat101/pseuds/cheshirecat101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty receives the one text he never thought he'd receive from Sherlock Holmes:</p>
<p>
  <em>Dear Jim, won’t you fix it for me and get rid of John Watson? –SH</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD THIS IS FINISHED. This has been sitting in my hard drive since last fall, and I only just finished it. Shows you how hard and long of a project it was. Anyway. I hope you enjoy the 43 pages of Johniarty fluff. And a friendly reminder that I do fic commissions, if you're interested please contact me on my [tumblr](http://disassociatedtinman.tumblr.com/) or in the comments below. Thank you!

It started with a fight. John blamed Sebastian Moran. Sherlock blamed John and called him seventeen synonyms for ‘idiot’ in four different languages. And that was just the start.

“Well how the hell did you expect me to know it was him?” John demanded to know, a slight flush on his cheeks that was part anger, part embarrassment for the ongoing humiliation at Sherlock’s hands.

“For God’s sake, John, even a _simpleton_ such as yourself should have known.” Eighteen synonyms. “The man is built like a house! How many blonde ex-military men do you know who look like they could murder someone on a moment’s notice?”

John merely gave him a pointed look, and Sherlock laughed, quite literally _laughed_ at him. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “You can’t be serious,” the detective said in a low, barely amused and more derisive tone.

“I killed someone the day after we met, Sherlock.”

“Oh yes, a dying old man with a brain aneurysm, I’m quaking with fear. Tell me, _Doctor_ Watson, how does the number you’ve killed compare to the number you saved?” John fell silent, and Sherlock took that as an invitation to swoop in closer, hissing his next words. “Now compare both numbers to how many people you think will die now that you’ve let Sebastian Moran, _Jim Moriarty’s right-hand man_ , slip quite literally through your fingers.”

He pulled away from John again, beginning to pace the sitting room, and John stood in silence in the space between the window and the table, still dressed in his coat from when he’d come in. He hadn’t even had a chance to take it off, because as soon as he had gotten nine words out of his mouth about his day, Sherlock had pounced. _I had an interesting patient today; an ex-colonel…_ Well, technically eight. The first synonym for stupid had come out then, as Sherlock’s instant response was, _“John, you absolute, utter imbecile, how could you let Sebastian Moran breeze in and out of your clinic?”_ And when John said he had no idea what Sherlock was talking about and that he’d treated the nice ex-colonel…well, that was when synonyms two, three, and four came, and everything had devolved from there.

After a minute of Sherlock’s angry pacing and muttering, John straightened up and said, “Fine then.”

Sherlock shot him a glare, practically growling his words. “It’s not fine, John, not in the slightest.”

John gave a brittle smile. “Yes it is, because I’m going to put an end to this nonsense right now. I have a gun—” he pulled his gun from his trouser waistband to show Sherlock, then put it back “—and if I step out that door and make myself readily available, I’m sure Jim Moriarty is bound to pick me up eventually. I can put an end to this right now.”

Sherlock’s anger seemed to evaporate in a second. “John. No,” he said, in that firm tone that usually brooked no argument. But John had that little twist of the lips that wasn’t quite a smile, that determined quirk of his mouth that said that he was anything but joking.

“This is a brilliant solution, Sherlock, I don’t know why you didn’t think of it before. If I sacrifice myself against Moriarty, he has nothing to use against you even if I’m unsuccessful, and you’ll still be free to take down the rest of his organization.” His cobalt eyes were absolutely, deadly serious as he looked at Sherlock, and the look was enough to silence the detective for a moment. John looked at him, nodded, and moved to leave. Sherlock’s eloquent response was to tackle him to the floor.

“Just let me do this, Sherlock!” John shouted, wriggling in the taller man’s grip as Sherlock maneuvered him beneath his lanky frame.

“I will not have you commit suicide in some misplaced effort to protect me!” Sherlock said, and succeeded in pinning John’s wrists to the floor. The other man was not to be deterred, however, and Sherlock felt something akin to genuine surprise as he found himself being rolled over, one of John’s legs hooked over one of his own to keep them locked together. Before he could regain the upper hand, something clicked and he realized that John had handcuffed his wrist to the table leg. When had John gotten handcuffs? Ah, pair on the table he’d meant to use as practice to see the fastest way to get out of them without picking them.

John rolled away before Sherlock had the chance to grab him, though the detective did manage to pull at the cuff of his jeans before John was up, standing, a little out of breath but clearly the winner in this situation. Sherlock jerked at the handcuff, but the table leg was solid and the table itself was heavy enough that he couldn’t lift it to slide the handcuff off the leg, not by himself. He’d have to pick the lock, and that would take time he didn’t have. John had already picked up his mobile, rechecked his gun, and was at the door. By the time Sherlock got the cuffs off, Moriarty would have him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said, pausing to look back at his flatmate, his friend, his almost-maybe-something-else. “It’s just better this way.” And then he was out the door, without even a proper goodbye.

Sherlock was honestly stricken for a minute. He couldn’t even move, something painful in his chest paralyzing him. What on earth was this? This crushing pressure, like a vice had been put on his heart. This…no, he couldn’t function like this. The sentiment was threatening to rob him of his sense entirely, leave him deprived of not only his intelligence, but all reason. John fucking Watson. Wonderful one minute, and on the verge of causing him a heart attack the next. The thought of John being taken by Jim, being tortured, being ki—Sherlock viciously clamped down on that thought before it could fully take off. There was, of course, one way to change John’s fate. One that might work to save him, if Sherlock could play Moriarty’s psychology in just the right way.

It was a good thing his mobile was still in his pocket, because he could easily pull it out without wasting the time to pick the cuffs, and type out the message that he hoped would save John Watson’s life.

***

Jim Moriarty was having a fan-fucking-tastic day. His morning had started with a botched assassination attempt that he knew could only come back to bite him in the ass, then continued with several hijacked extortion operations the British government was going to owe him for, and that was before he heard that dear Sebby had practically waltzed into John Watson’s clinic and even received treatment from the man! Honestly, half the time he couldn’t remember why he employed the man in the first place. Now he had to go through the tedious process of deleting all of the security camera footage from that day, though he was sure John was perfectly capable of giving an altogether too detailed description of Seb to Sherlock. Shit. Well, there was one rather important cover blown. His day started looking up, however, when John Watson practically fell into his lap.

The man must have been looking to get picked up, because he had honestly made himself the most conspicuous and easy to grab target Jim had ever seen. Either the doctor was far more stupid than Jim had thought, or he was just spoiling for a fight. Either way, John had only been on the street for about five minutes after leaving his flat before he was picked up, and two minutes after that he was in Jim’s car, drugged and lying across the backseat with his head in Jim’s lap while Jim absentmindedly stroked his hair. God, he’d never thought about the consistency of John Watson’s hair, never even spared a thought for it aside from trying to decide what color it was—ash blonde, he decided eventually; that had been while he was waiting for Sherlock to show up at pool and had to find some way to amuse himself—but now it was all he could think about. How easily those silky blonde strands slipped through his fingers, how lovely it felt to slide his entire hand through the soft, though short, hair over John’s forehead. His absent minded petting turned into careful cataloguing, the taunting message to Sherlock he’d been composing in his mind entirely forgotten, lost in the sensation of John Watson’s blonde locks underneath his hand. Hmm. How interesting.

He was drawn, however, out of his reverie by his mobile buzzing, and pulled it out of his jacket pocket to see the message that he had never thought he’d receive, the one that instantly turned his entire day around:

 

**Dear Jim, won’t you fix it for me and get rid of John Watson? –SH**

 

Oh. Oh yes. Oh _yes_. This was suddenly a very good day indeed. He giggled aloud, but immediately stopped when John stirred slightly against his lap. No no, it wouldn’t do to wake his pet up now. Well, not _his_ pet, dear Sherly’s pet, though the thought of taking John Watson for himself was looking more and more appealing by the minute.

 

**Oh my, didn’t think you had it in you, darling. –JM**

 

He texted it back one-handed, the other one still busy buried in John’s hair. The reply came almost instantly.

 

**I can’t afford sentiment. –SH**

 

Oh, this was just _too_ good. Sherlock Holmes trying to cut out his own heart before Jim could burn it out of him? The dear really was a robot, wasn’t he? Sociopath, psychopath, android, what did it matter? The point was, this meant Jim _won_. Sherlock might have been too proud to realize it, but he was going to destroy himself without John Watson. It would be a slow, painful death, and Jim would delight in every second of it, knowing he was the superior genius. If he killed John Watson, he would win. Or…there was a better way. If he not only took John from Sherlock, but turned him against him? Ooh, it was a deliciously evil thought.

 

**And what if I decide to keep him? He is a rather well-trained pet, after all. House-broken and everything. –JM**

**Kill him, or I’ll tip Mycroft off to several more blackmail operations that he can ruin for you. –SH**

 

Jim considered it for a minute, chestnut eyes on the sleeping man stretched across the seat next to him, hand still moving through those delightfully silky blonde strands. His thumb brushed over John’s cheek lightly, and John turned into the touch just a little, making a slight noise in his sleep. Oh, he was definitely keeping John for himself. There was just…something about the man. Maybe he just wanted to pull him apart to find out why he had such a profound effect on Sherlock Holmes. Whatever it was, it made him ravenous to keep him. And Jim Moriarty always got what he wanted, no matter the cost. And he didn’t even have to murder or blackmail anyone this time! No, this prize was given to him, and he was going to accept it wholeheartedly. He almost felt bad for John, in a way. Cast aside by the man he’d been so close to, the man who he’d been willing to take a bullet for, all because that man couldn’t handle having his neglected emotions stir again. For some inexplicable reason, Jim thought John deserved better than that. Well, the man was at least useful, had valuable skills that he could use. And honestly, he’d keep John if it just meant that he would get to keep petting his lovely blonde hair.

 

**No need to get testy, honey, I’ll handle it for you. Let Daddy get rid of all those nasty little emotions for you. Pleasure doing business, Sherly, you’ll receive proof in due time. –JM**

 

Well, forged proof, Jim thought as he slipped his mobile back into his pocket. He could easily get a fake body to take the place of John Watson, outfit it just right and destroy it so no one would question his death, not even Sherlock Holmes. Jim could fool them all, and he would lock John so far away underground that no one would ever be able to find him. And, if Johnny was a good boy, maybe he’d let him see the sunlight occasionally. After all, that hair would lose some of its golden tones if it wasn’t exposed to sunshine occasionally, and he couldn’t have that, now could he? Not when it was so pretty right now. 

Jim leaned down to brush his lips over John’s temple, the motion of his hand pausing for the moment. “We’re going to be the best of friends, Johnny boy, just you wait and see,” he breathed. “We’ll have so much more fun than you ever had with Sherly, love. You’ll never want to leave.” He pulled away again, and John moved in his lap once more, shifting further onto his back. Jim held his breath, waiting for John to turn completely and open those blue eyes to look at him, but a minute later he let out a disappointed exhale. No, John was really and truly passed out, and would remain so for a while. He’d have to wait to play with his new pet. Shame, really. He drew his fingertips across John’s forehead before combing the other man’s hair back again, letting it slip through his fingers to rest in the same spot as before. He was really going to enjoy having John, he could tell.

***

John was a lot more feisty than Jim remembered, though the last time he saw him was at the pool and he’d mostly been under duress there, so Jim really only had himself to blame for not seeing this delightfully fiery side of him before. Sebby had wanted to tie him up, but where was the fun in that? Of course, that meant that Seb was the one to suffer a surely broken nose before he managed to wrestle John to the ground, pinning the smaller man face down on the floor with his hands behind his back underneath Seb’s knee. Sebby’s face didn’t show any sign of the struggle that had happened, aside from the blood leaking from his somewhat mashed nose, and John only had a few bumps and bruises. All told, it was a brief and rather entertaining fight, and Jim found himself grinning broadly after it as John caught his breath and swore against the floor. His new pet was a fighter, too! Well, he’d already known that since the moment John tried to ruin his Westwood by grabbing him at the pool, but Jim wasn’t as strong or quick to react as Seb, and John had seemed to actually have a chance against the ex-colonel before Seb managed to get him on the floor. This was indeed going to be fun.

“Well hello Johnny boy!” Jim said brightly, bending slightly so he could make eye contact with John, whose face was at a rather uncomfortable angle against the floor. “I see you finally decided to join the land of the living. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem a touch upset.”

“Tell your colonel to get off of me and I’ll demonstrate for you,” John growled back, and Jim’s grin grew wider.

“My my, dear, no need to be so rude. We’re all friends here. And since your darling Sherlock decided to get rid of you…well, I suppose I’m the only friend you have left.”

The way that John’s body instantly fell limp was delightful. Sad, Jim supposed, but delightful. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice suddenly a lot quieter. Jim felt the overwhelming urge to giggle, but settled for popping his gum and pulling his mobile out of his pocket, flicking through numerous messages to find the ones he’d exchanged with Sherlock. He crouched down next to John to show him, scrolling through them slowly so John could read all of them and enjoying the way that John seemed to get paler with each message he read. He looked fairly sick, actually, and Jim stood up again and stepped away just in case the doctor decided to get sick on his Italian leather shoes.

“So you see? Dear Sherly wants nothing more to do with you, I’m afraid! Which means it’s in your best interest to be as polite as possible to me, my dear doctor.”

The fight that had leeched out of John came back in an instant, and he nearly managed to throw Seb off before he was pinned down again, firmly enough that something in his wrist cracked before Jim said, bored, “Enough.” He smiled pleasantly—or at least as pleasantly as Jim Moriarty could smile—as he waited for John, who was obviously gathering his energy to speak.

“You could have faked those texts,” he said, and Jim gave a delighted laugh.

“Oh, _Johnny boy_. I almost wish I had, you seem so very put out by the whole thing. I can assure you they’re entirely real, but that doesn’t matter anyway. Sherlock Holmes no longer has a say in what happens to you. No one does, really. Except for me,” Jim said, and pulled out a piece of clipped newspaper from his pocket with a flourish. He held it low enough for John to read, the other man mouthing the headline; “Local Doctor Dead in Horrific Accident”.

“You see?” Jim said as John continued to read, details and specific facts and his own name. “Everyone, including Sherly, thinks you’re already long gone. Horrific accident. Body burned beyond recognition. Of course, your dental records will match when anyone bothers to check them. No one, not even Sherlock Holmes, will know. Another satisfied client!”

John’s brow had furrowed deeply, wrinkling his forehead in a way that Jim found absolutely adorable. His new pet was so very expressive! It was fascinating, watching the myriad of emotions that flicked across John’s face in rapid succession, every feeling written plain as day for Jim to see and dissect. “Does that mean you’re not going to kill me?” John finally managed to ask, such a thick level of confusion in his voice that Jim found he couldn’t stop grinning. So very fun.

“Of course I’m not going to kill you. What would be the fun in that? No, Johnny boy, I’m adopting you!” Jim put on a frown, as if he was scolding someone. “Mean old Sherlock didn’t want his pet anymore and kicked you to the curb. But I decided to pick you up.” The scowl turned back into a grin as fast as if a switch had been flipped. And, well, most of Jim’s expressions were like that; switches to be flipped when he needed to look normal and act out emotions. The only real emotions he showed anymore were delight and anger, and whether the delight was acted or not depended on the situation, really.

John’s response to that was panic. It was good that Seb had learned from his earlier mistake and had the doctor pinned quite firmly, because John put up quite the fight before collapsing back onto the floor, closing his eyes with a pained expression. Jim put the paper clipping back into his pocket and reached to stroke John’s beautiful blonde hair. John instantly jerked away from the touch, eyes flashing back open, but Jim merely tutted and pursued his head to stroke his hair anyway. John could only jerk his head so far away and Jim wasn’t easily deterred, so John quickly gave up, resting his head against the floor and closing his eyes again.

“No need to be so _morose_ , honey. This isn’t the end of the world; in fact, I’m willing to offer you a very good deal.” John cracked one eye open at that, and it delighted Jim that he had his attention again. He made sure to drag the moment out, chewing on his gum for a minute until John literally _rolled his eyes_ at the melodrama of it all. Now, wasn’t that interesting? Usually no one had the courage to roll their eyes at anything Jim did, no matter how ridiculous. This was getting better and better by the minute. “Now, Johnny boy, if you play nicely and stop picking fights with Sebby here, you can come work for me.” Jim cocked his head to the side slightly, an angle that made his eye contact with John closer to level. “People in my line of work do seem to get injured so often, and I find it hard to retain a doctor, for some reason. You’d be handsomely paid, of course, and you’d be providing London a valuable service.”

“A valuable service by patching up criminals to be released back on the streets?” John spat, and the disdain in his voice made Jim’s smile lessen. Now, it wasn’t very nice for Johnny to say such things when Jim was a criminal himself. “No thanks, I think I’d rather actually go through the horrific accident. Then at least I wouldn’t have to deal with bastards like you again.”

Jim’s smile disappeared altogether before reappearing again, a knife’s edge. Sharp, and designed to cut. His hand had momentarily paused in John’s hair, but it continued now, so gentle that a look of fear came into John’s eyes. Ohhh, Johnny was already learning. Good, very good. “No need to say such things, dear, you might hurt a girl’s feelings.” A brief pout at this, before he sprang back with a smile, springing to his feet in the same moment and startling John. “I thought I’d be nice and offer you something first, but it was just a bit of flirting, really. I’m much happier with my other option.”

John’s brow furrowed again. Confusing the man was too much fun. “And what’s your other option?” he asked, his voice careful as if he knew he was playing with fire.

Jim smiled broadly, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels a bit. This was really the fun part. Though, technically he was only going to tell John part of the truth. In actuality, he had a checklist for John Watson:

 

Xacquire John Watson 

-steal his heart

-turn him against Sherlock Holmes

-destroy him

 

It was a wonderful checklist, and already a quarter of the way done! Delightful. But for now, all John heard was; “I’m going to lock you away, dearest, and make sure I’m the only person who ever sees you again. Maybe if you’re very good I’ll even make my generous offer again.” He winked at this, brown eyes sparkling with malicious glee, and John let his forehead thud to the concrete floor in a way that couldn’t be pleasant. Jim frowned; no, no, his pet wasn’t allowed to hurt himself. That wouldn’t do. If he was really going to steal John Watson’s heart, it was going to be a long uphill battle. But that was the only way to completely, entirely, thoroughly, destroy John Watson and make sure that Sherlock Holmes’s heart was well and truly burnt.

John’s voice was a little strained when he asked, “And what do you intend to do with me? While I’m ‘in captivity’?”

Captivity. Jim liked that; it made John sound like he was an endangered species, a rare creature caught in some trap. In a way, he was; after all, Sherlock Holmes had never had any other pets. John Watson was a rare specimen, an exotic pet, and he was all Jim’s now. God, wasn’t that just the best thing in the world? “Why would I tell you and spoil all the fun?” Jim asked, and snapped his fingers. Suddenly Seb’s significant weight was off John entirely, and John gasped at the relief of pressure, flexing his hands and wrists for a moment to regain circulation. Seb waited for him to push himself to standing before taking hold of his arm, giving him a warning look when John looked like he was going to try to hit him again. John tensed for a minute like an angry cat, then relaxed again, more in defeat than anything else. Jim watched it all with keen interest, which turned into delight when John chuckled slightly, bitterly, and asked, “No chance that you’ll change your mind and kill me, is there?”

He made purposeful eye contact with Jim for the first time, and there was something in his eyes that caused something like a stutter in Jim’s heart. Oh, how interesting. John Watson made such a lovely martyr, didn’t he? Funny, that the man that Jim had never looked twice at was turning out to be nearly as interesting as Sherlock, if not more so.

Jim smiled broadly in response, leaning just a touch closer to John, still safely out of reach of the rather impressive swing of the doctor. “Don’t worry, John, I’m going to make sure you’re extremely well looked after. You won’t ever want to leave.” He turned on his heel, striding purposefully towards the exit. “Tata for now!”

***

Jim hadn’t been lying, either; no, in order to achieve his goals, he was going to ensure that he went against every preconceived notion John had about him. That meant killing him with kindness, and that was exactly what Jim did.

To start with, the ‘cell’ he was held in was really a rather expensive flat, a beautifully decorated cage for his lovely exotic pet. It was, above all, sunny, nearly every room furnished with multiple windows—a penthouse, of course, so no one could look in the windows and see the supposedly dead doctor—so that rays of sunlight followed on John’s heels wherever he went, lighting up his hair and lightening it with the constant exposure. It was wonderful, and only added to the loveliness of the flat. Jim made sure to keep it stocked with everything that John liked as well, his favorite teas, his favorite jams, and all sorts of delectable expensive foods that he could have never afforded to buy on his own. John’s wardrobe—entirely handpicked by Jim, incidentally, though he’d skin Seb if he ever told anybody, especially John—was upgraded as well; it still had jumpers and button-up shirts like before, only now the jumpers were cashmere, the shirts silk, his shoes Italian leather. Everything was upgraded, tasteful and stylish, and in Jim’s opinion, the doctor looked the best he ever had since Jim met him. Most of that was because Jim had painstakingly picked out colors meant to bring out the blue of John’s eyes and the more golden tones of his hair, but no one needed to know about that, and certainly not John. Of course, John still tried to escape despite his opulent surroundings, and at first it was such a frequent occurrence that it almost became a joke between him and Seb. John could only remain angry at the man for so long, and besides, there was a certain camaraderie between soldiers, even enemies, that Jim couldn’t quite understand. In this case, it meant that by the seventh attempt, Seb was actually grinning when he brought John back into the flat, and John was chuckling. Jim couldn’t understand what on earth they both found so funny, but it didn’t matter because after that, John’s escape attempts dropped drastically, and Seb warmed to the other man, actually managing to have small conversations with him, mostly about guns. Seb had heard, through Jim of course, about the shot John made to kill the cabbie, and there was a certain amount of appreciation in the sniper’s voice when he mentioned it to John. Seb seemed to respect John as an equal—a rarity for him, and apparently for John as well. John, of course, was well-adjusted to being a step behind, playing second fiddle to the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, who only rarely recognized Dr. Watson’s merits. The recognition of his skill and talent by Seb—an accomplished sniper himself, one of the best in the world—seemed to make the doctor stand a little straighter, walk a little taller. It was fascinating from Jim’s point of view; was John really so starved for appreciation that he would take it even from someone he considered an enemy, someone who had literally held him at gunpoint, albeit from afar?

Jim himself felt a strange sort of desire to impress the man, to demonstrate that he really was better than Sherlock Holmes. Well, that was the act wasn’t it? The goal on his checklist, to convince John to turn against his former flatmate? Yes, but there was a genuine desire underneath it too, the perpetual competition with Sherlock to see who was the fairest of them all. A real urge to see if he could win over John Watson more thoroughly than Sherlock had managed to.

And Jim’s slow method of feeding John sugar until he fell to Jim’s charms seemed to be working. John learned, rather quickly in fact, that it was easier to tolerate Jim’s obsession with his hair than fight it. At first, Jim stood behind John while he sat on the couch and waited until John stopped trying to evade him before burying his nose in John’s hair before anything else. He had discovered that aside from feeling delightful, John’s hair also smelled wonderful, and had immediately set about making sure that John had the exact same products available to him to keep his hair exactly as it had been in the car ride when Jim first discovered his new favorite obsession. So the first part of what was rapidly turning into his routine was to just bury his nose deeply in John’s hair, as stiff as that made John’s back go. Then he allowed himself to smooth his hands over it before beginning to run his fingers through it, lightly at first and then deeply enough to feel John’s warm scalp. John usually let this go on for approximately ten seconds before springing off the couch, but instead of the punishment he expected from the “absolute nutter who can’t keep his hands out of my hair”—as he described Jim to Seb, though of course Jim listened in and giggled at the apt classification—Jim showered him with gifts, called him ‘love’, ‘dear’, ‘dearest’, and ‘honey’, and generally just tried to adjust John while killing him with kindness. The amount of time that John let Jim play with his hair slowly increased, and he even started to let Jim sit next to him on the couch, seeming amused and puzzled by the genius’s obsession, which eventually prompted the question; “Why are you so interested in my hair?”

“Hmm?” Jim asked, pulling himself out of the trance caused by the way the sunlight was catching the hair at the back of John’s head.

“My hair. You come here, almost every day, and it’s almost always to just play with my hair. Is it a fetish or something? Like the whole blonde hair, blue eyes, Aryan thing?”

Jim wrinkled his nose at the implication in his words. “Don’t think I’m dull enough to be a supremacist, Johnny boy, I’m only a snob about my clothes.” He ran his hand through the hair at the side of John’s head, the strands at his temple feeling especially soft and silky. God, if he could sell the secret of John Watson’s hair to women, he’d make a fortune. “And it’s not a ‘fetish’, I just like your hair. I love your hair.”

John’s brow furrowed in that delightful way and Jim smiled at it, always pleased as he watched the confusion flit across the other man’s features. Always so wonderfully expressive, his dear John. And John was going to become his, Jim was determined about that. “You love my hair,” John repeated slowly, and pursed his lips when Jim nodded. Jim’s grin grew wider at that; he’d never seen anyone who used their lips to express their emotions as much as John Watson did. The man did things with his lips that somehow managed to always say what he was feeling, and the way he occasionally licked them was completely unique and impossible to replicate. “You know you’re an absolute nutter, right?”

Jim giggled at this, stroking his fingers through John’s hair again and gently raking his nails across his scalp, pleasantly surprised when John shivered like a chill had just gone through him. “I’d be boring if I wasn’t insane, Johnny,” he answered with a lopsided grin, and John left it at that.

Despite John’s growing compliancy with Jim’s attentions, he still pulled away far before Jim was fully satisfied, prompting more gifts and a sugary sweet treatment that clearly made the doctor incredibly suspicious, and also slightly amused. One day Jim found him staring at a gift box on the kitchen counter, a bemused expression on his face. Jim had come for his daily fix, and John turned to him with a grin, the first full-out grin since Jim had first imprisoned him weeks ago. It made something funny happen in Jim’s chest, but he ignored the feeling as John said, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were wooing me.”

Jim didn’t answer, merely smiling back at him with a hint of madness and amusement in his eyes, and he could pinpoint the exact moment when John realized it, his eyebrows dropping and the smile slipping off of his face.

“Oh god,” he said weakly. “You’re really wooing me.”

“I think I’ll leave you alone to sort this all out, Johnny boy,” Jim said with a genial wink, and left the flat without getting his fix for the day. Of course, that meant his fingers were itching to feel John’s hair by the time he came ‘round the next day, but when he sat down on the couch John moved farther away from him. Jim’s smile dropped and he patted his lap, as if he was calling a rather reluctant cat over. John hesitated, wavering for a minute, and then obliged, lying down with his head on Jim’s lap, facing away from Jim, just as he had in the car what seemed like a lifetime ago. Jim instantly lit up with delight and anticipation, pausing to let his heart adjust to its suddenly much faster beat before he gently, gently, placed his hand on John’s head, letting his fingers sift through the golden tresses. After a few minutes of this soft, gentle petting, John’s eyes slipped shut in what Jim’s beating heart sincerely hoped was complacency. Funny, how he wanted John to enjoy this as much as he did himself.

“Why?” John asked after his eyes had closed. Shame Jim couldn’t see their sapphire depths, but he would have had to sit at an angle and loom over John to do that anyway.

Jim, as clever as Sherlock and quite well-adjusted to John now, knew he was talking about the incident yesterday. Seb had reported that John had walked around the flat in a perpetual state of confusion after Jim left, and even stopped, opened his mouth to speak to Seb, and then closed it, shaking his head as he went back into the kitchen. The whole thing put a note of amusement in the ex-colonel’s voice, and—not for the first time, admittedly—Jim suspected that Sebby was watching the proceedings and wasn’t rooting for a specific outcome because he didn’t have anything at stake. Though there were also times when John and Sebby seemed a little too friendly, and Jim felt a sick sort of anger in his stomach, a feeling he didn’t understand. His second-in-command remained as stoic as ever, mysterious in his intentions and motivations, and try as Jim might, he could never quite figure the man out. And that was part of the reason he liked having him around so much; so few people could puzzle Jim that thoroughly. Between Seb, who was a mystery, and John, who was continually a surprise, and, of course, Sherlock, who was a challenge, Jim was finding himself constantly entertained these days. It was wonderful! He hadn’t felt this good in such a long while.   
“Why wouldn’t I?” Jim said in response to John’s question, and hummed contentedly as he lightly twirled some of John’s hair around one of his fingers.

John’s eyes opened again as he turned onto his back to give Jim a cross between a frown and his usual confused expression. It was positively adorable. “Why would you?”

Jim tsked immediately like he was scolding an ignorant child. Scolding affectionately, though. “You don’t mean to tell me that the rumors about you and Sherly are completely untrue?”

John snorted before saying, “Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes had no interest in me.”

“Oh, I’d beg to disagree, dearest,” Jim said, his eyes sparkling with something between amusement and delight. “He might not have acted on it, but you quite got our dear detective’s knickers in a twist.”

The look that John fixed him with was flat and unamused, and Jim’s hand resumed its stroking through the fine hairs at John’s temple closest to Jim. “Go ahead, don’t believe me, but I know Sherly very well. He and I are so alike it’d be dreadfully boring if we weren’t at opposite ends of the morality spectrum.” Jim waved his free hand dismissively before it settled on John’s arm, John’s eyes flicking to it before being drawn back to that chestnut gaze as Jim spoke again. “The poor boy was smitten with you. Isn’t that why he asked to have you killed? ‘I can’t afford sentiment’.” He said this with his brow dropped low, his voice deepened as well to imitate what was surely supposed to be the stupid tone of someone trying to solve a difficult problem. He wrinkled his nose, popping back out of the expression again. “I must say, I’m a teensy bit disappointed that he decided to cut out his heart before I could do it for him. Because, dear Johnny boy, we both know you were always his heart.” He smiled, cocking his head to the side, and John shook his head after a moment of consideration.

“He might have been lying when he told you he didn’t have one, but I certainly wasn’t the placeholder for it,” he said firmly, in that soldierly tone that Jim was sure he’d used to snap out commands in the past. It made a little tingle travel down Jim’s spine. What would it be like to have John using that voice in bed? Oh no, he was getting sidetracked again. Right. Sherlock’s heart.

Jim licked his lips before he spoke, and interestingly enough, John’s eyes darted to the motion before returning to Jim’s gaze. “Oh, Johnny,” he said in a low tone, just above a whisper. “Let’s take a look at the facts, shall we?” There was some trepidation in John’s gaze at this, but he nodded. The following breakdown was entirely logical in such a Sherlock way that it was nearly all John could do to stare at Jim throughout it. “When you met Sherlock, he not only said that he was married to his work but a highly functioning sociopath, correct?”  
“How on earth—”

Jim waved the question off with a hand, anticipating its direction and heading it off at the pass. “The Iceman isn’t the only one with the resources to stalk his prey easily. Mycroft Holmes,” he explained at John’s confused look, and John actually chuckled at that. Ooh, a chuckle from John was a rare and pleasant thing. His pet was being so good today! He’d have to find a way to reward him for that later. For now, he settled for brushing away the hair over John’s forehead with an almost tender hand, continuing in his analysis. Because he had analyzed this, as research for turning John away from his darling detective—and turning loyalty that deep was a fun and difficult challenge indeed, he hadn’t gotten bored with it yet—but something had shifted as he delved deeper into it, looking at more footage and photographs and reading the accounts on John’s personal blog, on which someone—Molly Hooper, he strongly suspected—had posted a nice, sweet little memorial for John. He’d started studying John and Sherlock’s interactions to see how John was reacting to Sherlock, and each utterance of “Fantastic!” or “Brilliant, just brilliant” caused that sick, angry little twist in his stomach that he didn’t understand. John never called him brilliant or fantastic, and Jim was organizing and running an entire empire of crime. It hardly seemed fair that John would bestow compliments on one genius and not the other, especially when Jim had so obviously won against Sherlock for the time being. It nearly made him pout, but instead he found himself frowning whenever Sherlock leaned a little too close—since the man seemed to have no concept of personal space with John—or made John smile or laugh, or chided John for being insipid. John was anything but stupid, Jim had found so far. He was rather intelligent and crafty besides, not a genius like Sherlock or Jim but a better man than them both. It was easy to see why from nearly day one Sherlock had relied on John to be his moral compass, informing him when things he did or said weren’t quite on and helping him stay away from the gray area between wrong and right. Jim, of course, didn’t want John to do the same for him, but he could still appreciate the opening that John filled. The way that he kept the detective balanced and focused. It was obvious that John knew that he filled that position for Sherlock, performed that function, but it was also obvious that there was so much that John missed. The sneaky little sidelong glances from sea foam eyes that darted back to their work before John could notice. The subtle shifts so their bodies were closer together in cabs and at crime scenes. The lingering glances taking in John’s entire body when he was busy examining bodies at crime scenes. John had never noticed them because Sherlock’s form of affection was so subtle that it would take another genius to pick it out. Enter Jim.

And Jim ran down a nice little truncated version of Sherlock’s actions for John while John stared up at him in disbelief, no longer even noticing Jim’s hand going through his hair. Jim concluded with a smile and a flourish of his hand. “Ta da! One instant recipe for love-struck genius. Of course, Sherly would never admit it to you because he didn’t have the courage, poor dear, and then he decided it would be safer to just eliminate that mess anyway. Tragic. I suppose.” He looked positively bored with the proceedings, but the slight gleam in his eyes revealed how intensely interested he was, if John cared to look for it. Instead, John had the most unexpected reaction; he punched Jim in the face.

Seb was over in an instant, pulling John away from Jim and holding his arms behind his back, but it was entirely unnecessary because John was perfectly calm, radiating a kind of quiet fury that Jim would have found more fascinating if his face didn’t hurt so much. Feisty, very feisty! And dangerous, this cold fury that Jim had never seen before, the stone cold killer John hid under jumpers and tea. Fascinating. If only Jim didn’t have to get a black eye to see it.

“You don’t know him,” John said, his voice tightly controlled, a hard edge that had shivers running down Jim’s spine in the loveliest way. “You don’t know him, or me, or anything about the two of us. I don’t fucking care if you’re a genius, that doesn’t matter if you can’t empathize with human beings, and I don’t think I was ever Sherlock Holmes’s heart, but if I was I would be glad for it because it would mean I made him a better man, and he’s already a great man. You, on the other hand, are a heartless bastard who has no humanity left in you, and I don’t care what kind of sick game you’re playing at, I’ll have no part of it.”

“I don’t think—ow—you really have a choice in the matter,” Jim said, his voice somewhat nasally as he checked his nose to make sure it wasn’t broken. The hit had mostly been at his eye and he gingerly felt along his upper cheekbone, knowing the space would be black as night given a few hours. “In fact, pet,” he said, pulling out his handkerchief to dab at his face, “I know you don’t. Remember, dear Johnny boy, that everyone else thinks you’re dead. Seb and I are the only ones who know otherwise.”

And then John smiled, and Jim realized his mistake. Up until now he’d been the picture of a generous captor, showering John with affection for no apparent reason up until the epiphany that he was ‘wooing’ John revealed his motivation. And John had managed to get the façade to slip, gotten him to show the sadist underneath it all. God that man was constantly a surprise. It caused a grin to slip back onto Jim’s features, and the shock that appeared on John’s face was perfect. Jim slipped into giggles, clutching his handkerchief to his nose and stumbling back towards the couch, John’s shocked eyes following him.   
“Oh, you never fail me, do you, Johnny boy?” Jim asked when he could breathe again, removing his handkerchief from his face. “Always such a surprise, just when I think I have you figured out. But don’t worry, love, just because I got a touch angry doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s not a game, honey, not if you’re already guaranteed to lose.”

John snorted, much to Seb’s amusement, though the colonel did a good job of hiding it. “I’m sorry, but do you honestly find yourself to be so irresistible that you’re guaranteed to successfully seduce me?”

“No one ever said anything about seducing you, dear. I’m going to make you love me.” And with that, he was back out the door, Seb releasing John as soon as Jim was gone.

Jim was internally fuming, however outwardly calm he’d had to appear in front of John. John had just knocked his efforts back several steps, and it was going to be damn near impossible to touch his hair for the next couple of days. At least, if he wanted John to submit to it willingly, and that was essential for Jim’s checklist. But this little obsession of Jim’s was getting out of hand. Usually when he was this angry, he wanted nothing more than to find some uppity chav who had the gall to step over Jim Moriarty’s carefully marked out line and tear him to pieces, slowly, and with his bare hands and many metal instruments. Instead, his mind was filled with the texture of John’s hair, the innumerable shades of gold and dull bronze it took on in the sunlight, the smell of John’s hair when he was fresh out of the shower. It made him want to put his head through a fucking wall. Jim Moriarty was not ruled by anyone, and certainly not John Watson. The man had absolutely no effect on him, he just had nice hair.

And that was what Jim continued to tell himself, even when he ordered a lovely high end prostitute with blonde hair and blue eyes, who wasn’t nearly as pretty as John and didn’t even have very soft hair. Jim was satisfied, for a short time, but not long after the man left, when he closed his eyes and waited for sleep that wouldn’t come, never came, the first image that rose behind closed lids was one of John Watson, caught in the sunshine of the flat with hair mussed from sleep.

Jim instantly sat up, picked up the nearest gun, and started shooting the closest wall, emptying the entire clip. When that was empty, he threw the gun at the wall with a curse and dropped his head into his hands, raking back dark hair with his fingers. He flopped back onto the bed, rubbing his eyes a moment later. Was this how it had felt for Sherlock Holmes? Was this why he’d done what he did? Because god, if it was, Jim could suddenly understand it. And he didn’t even love the man, he was just mildly obsessed. Sherlock, poor, emotionless Sherlock, must have been scratching at the walls of his head in an effort to just get this blasted sentiment out! It made Jim chuckle, honestly. The entire thought was so very amusing. At least, up until he closed his eyes and saw John again, quite vividly. No. No, this wasn’t how this worked. He was going to wrap John so tightly around his finger that the other man snapped, no matter how he had to do it. So the next day, Jim moved in with him.

***

“You cannot be serious,” John said, arms folded against his chest as he watched various men carry in boxes of Jim’s things, a surprisingly small amount, all things considered. Jim lived very lightly and often had to move around, so he didn’t very often get attached to physical possessions. Really, aside from his clothes and a few books, there wasn’t much in his flats at all, usually. He only watched telly to see what headlines he was making, and he could use his mobile for that. So, not much to move, but enough to have John’s eyebrows almost entirely into his hairline. Adorable.

“Ohhh, I’m going to be the _best_ flatmate you’ve ever had, Johnny!” Jim sang out, entering the flat behind the last of the boxes. He didn’t even have to set anything up; by the time he was done talking to John, everything would be just where he wanted it and the movers would be back out the door.

“There’s one bedroom in this flat,” John said flatly, his lips caught between a purse and a frown, as if his mouth couldn’t decide just how displeased it was. His hair was mussed like it had been in Jim’s mental image from just the day before, a cup of still steaming tea on the counter behind him. He seemed to have entirely forgotten the toast sticking out of the toaster, surely cold by now. No matter, Jim hadn’t eaten either. He could impress darling little John!

“Oh, is there?” Jim put on a thinking face, bringing a finger up to tap against his lip. “However could we solve that…oh, we’ll have to share!”

“No. No, absolutely not,” John said immediately, and Jim cocked his head to the side slightly, grinning at him.

“Why, Johnny? Afraid of little old me? Daddy just wants to be friends.”

“Yeah, you referring to yourself as ‘Daddy’ does not make me any more comfortable with this.”

Jim put on a surprised face. “But I’m so very trustworthy!”

John fixed him with a look that could kill and turned back to the counter, shaking his head as he picked up his tea. “I’ll sleep on the couch, then.”

“If you insiiiiist,” Jim said, drawing out the ‘i’ in a sing-song. John turned back to him, clearly surprised that Jim had conceded that point. Jim didn’t bother to tell him that he intended to have John crawling into his bed within a week.

“You’re mad, absolutely mad,” John said, shaking his head again, and looked to Seb. “Do you condone this?”

Seb didn’t answer, and Jim said, “Oh, don’t bother asking him, he’s practically a mute. Now, what do you want for breakfast?” His voice had dropped back into his entirely normal tone, and John stared at him like he’d entirely forgotten the meaning of the word ‘breakfast’.

“Breakfast?” he asked, still clearly stunned and still not entirely awake.

“Yes, breakfast, dearie. I’m afraid your toast has gone entirely cold.”

John turned to look at the toast in the toaster as if he’d entirely forgotten its existence. “Hang on a minute, you’re going to make breakfast?” he asked, his mind having finally caught up to Jim’s words as he turned back to Jim.

“Of course, sweetie! The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, isn’t it? Of course, they might just say that because that’s where the entrails are.” Jim was already in the process of removing his suit coat, casually tossing it over the back of a chair, and moved on to start rolling up the sleeves of his white button-up.

“You mean to tell me that you, megalomaniac, certifiably insane genius, like to cook,” John said, completely ignoring the last part of Jim’s statement, and Jim nodded happily, beginning to remove items from the cabinets. John sank down onto a seat at the counter, putting his head in his hands. “I’ve gone insane. I have literally gone insane.”

“No need to be so dramatic, Johnny boy, there’s a lot about me that you don’t know,” Jim said, and handed him strawberries and a very small knife. “Start cutting.”

John lifted his eyebrows, though whether it was because Jim was asking him to help—well, ordering, really—or because Jim was trusting him with a knife, Jim couldn’t tell. It wouldn’t cause any harm to trust John with a knife; after all, he was separated from Jim by a counter and Seb was just a step away from them and wouldn’t be afraid of getting stabbed by such a pitiful length of steel. John obeyed Jim’s orders to start cutting, quickly and neatly dividing the strawberries with the careful hand of a surgeon.

Jim was taking stock of the kitchen and suddenly pouted, drawing John’s attention to him. “What?” the blonde asked, and Jim said, a touch of sulking in his voice, “I don’t have the time to make chamomile cream. I’ll just have to make it regular.”

“Chamomile cream?” John repeated, incredulous. “You—god, you actually can cook.”

Jim cast him a hurt gaze. “What, didn’t think I could?”

“No, no, I just…it seems so unlikely for you. Not the type of hobby I’d see for a genius criminal.”

“And how many of those do you know?” Jim asked in amusement, causing John to snort and pick up his tea from where he’d abandoned it out of shock before.

“Fair enough, you’re the only _criminal_ genius I know. But I know three geniuses in total.”

“Three?” Jim asked, rounding on him with his eyebrows raised.

“You and the Holmes brothers.” Jim snorted and John frowned. “What, you’re not telling me you don’t think Mycroft Holmes is a genius.”

“Oh no, Big Brother Holmes is definitely a genius. I just always forget to count him,” Jim said dismissively, pulling out a pan, and John frowned.

“Are you honestly so absorbed in your rivalry with Sherlock that you forget other people exist outside of it?”

A sound that could have been a chuckle but was mostly a cough came from Seb, and Jim shot him a glare before saying in a perfectly polite tone to John, “I noticed you, didn’t I?”

“Sherlock asked you to kill me and you decided to keep me instead, that’s hardly noticing me,” John said. After a moment he added, “According to your version of events, at least.”

He went back to drinking his tea, brow furrowed slightly over blue eyes, and Jim didn’t let him see the smile that had crept onto his lips. Check.

 

Xacquire John Watson 

-steal his heart

Xturn him against Sherlock Holmes

-destroy him

 

Delightful! A little out of order, but no doubt John beginning to doubt Sherlock, losing his loyalty a bit, would only help Jim in his quest to acquire John Watson’s heart. Ohh, all of this would be completely worth it when he finally destroyed the man. For now, he had to slowly gain back all the ground he’d lost yesterday, starting by making John a delicious breakfast. It took a lot of time that Jim could have been using to coordinate things, but it was his day off anyway—Saturdays were Jim’s days and he just had no fucks to give about anything outside of himself on them unless an emergency arose, and god help whatever poor soul decided to fuck with Jim that day—and this was an important mission he was on. Another step closer to John was a step closer to destroying Sherlock Holmes.

Jim had turned back to the counter, the oven on, and was suddenly caught by the sight of John ruffling a hand through his hair, only succeeding in making it messier than before. Jim wanted to do that. Why wasn’t Jim allowed to do that? But Johnny was still bristling from yesterday, and the last thing Jim wanted to do was take another step back…oh, fuck it, he was already in the doghouse.

Jim reached out for John’s hair and John instantly leaned away from him without even looking up. It could have been accidental, if not for the way that John’s lips set into a firm line, his face closed off once again. Somehow, the fact that John hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge Jim while he did it hurt more than the rejection itself. Because Jim had expected the rejection, had even expected some anger, perhaps, at the very least irritation, but John had just ignored him. Pretended he didn’t exist. Even the worst bullies of Jim’s past had acknowledged his existence; Carl Powers and company had had to in order to insult him. Jim’s parents, on the other hand…well, they were a lot like what John had just done. Cold, distant, casually ignoring him. God fucking dammit he hated that.

But he brushed it back with a playful, “So, Johnny boy, how do you like your eggs?”

The sense of relief when John turned to look at him was inexplicable. “That’s an awful chat-up line and it only works with women,” he said, his tone flat, though there was a hint of amusement in it.

“Fine then, how do you take your tea?”

“Hot and a little sweet like I like my women,” John said with a completely straight face, though there was a glint in his eyes.

Jim grinned, so very pleased that he’d decided to play along, even if he had said ‘women’. “I’m both of those things,” he said, and John chuckled.

“No, I don’t think you could ever be described as sweet.”

Seb was hiding a smile behind a hand and Jim said, “Ask Sebby, he’ll tell you I’m the sweetest I’ll ever be with you.”

John cast a glance at Seb, who nodded, a slight incline of his head more than anything. “Why do you work for him?” John asked, eyebrows quirked in amusement, lips the same in an expression Jim would have thought impossible on anyone but John.

“I pay absurdly well. Care to join me?” Jim asked with a lopsided smile, and John looked back at him, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me those pesky little morals are still getting in your way, Johnny boy.”

“Ah, yes, my moral code is such a burden to me,” John said with a roll of his eyes, taking another sip of his tea.

Jim smirked, pouring the batter he’d steadily been preparing into a pan which quickly went into the oven. “But your moral code isn’t exactly ordinary, is it, Johnny?” he asked, getting out heavy cream to make the cream he’d been so put-out about. “You’ll kill a man as long as it’s for dear _Sherly_ , but if I ask you to patch up one teensy tiny criminal…”

“I killed a serial killer to save Sherlock from death, it’s hardly the same thing. ‘An old man with a brain aneurysm’, as Sherlock put it.”

Oh ho, this was even better than Jim had thought. Well, Sherlock’s behavior was worse than he’d thought, so everything amounted to the same result. John had another reason to be bitter, another underappreciated act, this one causing even more resentment because he’d actually saved Sherlock’s life, with absolutely no appreciation or acknowledgment from the other man, at least not to Jim’s knowledge.

Sebastian scoffed lightly at this, and John turned to smile at him, camaraderie shining through in his smile again. Jim didn’t like it one bit. “I know, right? Never mind the distance of the shot, or the angle, or the difficulty, or the fact that the man in question was a serial killer who was about to kill him, no, the only important part was the age and health condition of the man involved. Honestly.” He turned back to the counter, shaking his head, and took another sip of his tea.

Jim didn’t like the way Seb was smiling slightly to himself, a mirrored smile still on John’s lips. Soldiers. Why the fuck did they have to like each other so much? Apparently it didn’t matter that John had been a doctor and Seb a soldier, or that Seb had been dishonorably discharged and John had been honorably discharged for his shoulder. Maybe it would be different if they had been on different sides of the war, but no, both were more than happy to fight for Queen and country and share secret smiles about it too. Jim resisted the urge to glare at Seb with pure venom and instead turned to John, purring, “Tell me about guns, Johnny boy.”

“I’m sure Seb’s told you about them before,” John said, not bothering to look up, and the added use of the nickname made that sick little twist in Jim’s stomach return in full force. He was really going to have to talk to Sebby fraternizing with the enemy later. Usually he was so quiet, reserved, staying absolutely taciturn despite what Jim did. Jim could be murdering someone in front of him and Seb wouldn’t bat an eyelash, but apparently introducing John Watson to the mix made him entirely break his composure. He couldn’t quite explain why that made him so angry.

But John was talking again, and the sound brought Jim back into reality. “What do you want to know about, anyway?”

“Nothing particularly, but you don’t like any of _my_ topics of conversation, so I thought we’d talk about something you like. Would you prefer we continue to talk about Sherlock?”

John pulled a face and a smile instantly popped onto Jim’s lips. He turned again, beginning to whip the heavy cream in the bowl with a glance back at the oven, and it was a minute before John said, “You know, with the amount of time you spend talking about the man, anyone would think you’re in love with him.”

It was Jim’s turn to make a face, turning back to John again, who smiled. Ah, successful reversal on John’s part, his pet was such a skilled conversationalist. “Sherly and I are too alike. Opposite sides of the same coin, an angel and a demon, what have you.” He waved a hand dismissively before going back to whipping the cream. “It’d be _boring_ to date him.”

John snorted, and Jim gave him a look. “What?” Jim asked.

“He’s the most brilliant man I’ve ever met,” John responded. “I wouldn’t imagine it would be boring.”

“And how would you know, dearest, if you never dated him?”

He had him with that one, and Jim smiled and turned to look at the oven again. “Really, though,” John said, “are you honestly telling me that part of your obsession with him isn’t romantic at all?”

The only appropriate response to this was for Jim to roll his eyes as dramatically as he could manage before tossing John a smile. “Sweetheart, if I wanted Sherlock Holmes, I could have him. He may be fun to play with, but he’d be a bore as a boyfriend.”

John seemed to nearly retch at the alliteration, but simply said, “Just…well, anyone who’s that obsessed? It seems unlikely. Besides, it’s Sherlock. Even people who don’t like the man think he’s aesthetically pleasing.” He took another sip of his tea and nearly spat it right back out when Jim said, “So does that include you, Johnny boy?”

John decisively put his mug down before he spoke, clearly not willing to risk any further abuse of tea. “I don’t usually spend my time gazing adoringly at my flatmates and thinking how pretty they are,” he said, giving Jim a look that spoke volumes about how heavily unamused he was.

“Well I’m your new flatmate, so hopefully you’ll spend time gazing adoringly at me and thinking about how pretty I am,” Jim said with a smile. John snorted at that but Jim considered it a point for his side anyway since he’d manage to entertain his John. He certainly entertained him more than Seb did. The thought made Jim’s nose wrinkle slightly as he turned away from John again, whipping the cream in the bowl. This rather quickly tired his arm out and he turned back to John with a slight whine in his voice. “Johnny, fix it,” he said, holding out the bowl, and John raised both his eyebrows but accepted it, taking over for him.

“I swear to God, all geniuses are children aside from Mycroft…” Jim caught John muttering under his breath, and rested his elbows on the counter, leaning forward towards John.

“That just leaves me and Sherly, dearest, and I’m older than him, so I think we can all agree on who’s the child here,” he said, and John looked up, his forehead creased with confusion.

“You’re older than Sherlock?” he asked, and Jim nodded. “By how many years?”

Jim held up five fingers, a full hand, and John started. “God, you’re actually the same age as me. I can’t believe it…” He shook his head, returning his focus to the cream because it didn’t startle him the way Jim Moriarty did, and Jim smiled, propping his head up on his hand.

“I’m starting to look like a better and better option, aren’t I, Johnny boy?” he asked, and John cast him a veiled glance before returning his attention to his task.

“Ah ah ah, that’s enough!” Jim said suddenly, and John stopped, handing him back the bowl. Jim added sugar and vanilla flavoring and handed it back to him with a sweet smile. John rolled his eyes but went back to work, Jim able to quietly admire the strength hidden in the other man’s small frame. That was another one of the interesting things about John; the fact that he went so very far against ordinary appearances. Any person would take a look at Seb and be intimidated by his sheer size, but they would never suspect the strength that lurked in John’s smaller frame. Though, John fed into that on purpose, it seemed, by wearing fluffy jumpers and cardigans and plaid button-ups. He didn’t dress the part of the solider aside from wearing comfortable, functional clothing, and he wasn’t a particularly angry or violent individual. John was a carefully hidden threat under the guise of something so soft and fluffy, and it nearly made Jim’s mouth water. He loved the constant paradox that John presented. It kept things interesting, for certain. And Jim did so love interesting.

***

John let Jim resume his activities with John’s hair a few days after Jim moved in, evidently deciding it was bound to happen eventually, though Jim liked to think he was starting to like it too. Certainly, they were at the point now where John would put his head on Jim’s lap and sometimes even close his eyes, some of the tension he was holding melting out of his stiff spine. It was absolutely delightful to Jim, as it was taking him closer and closer to the doctor, and every time John seemed to relax under his hands something funny happened in Jim’s chest. The real break-through came, however, after about a week of cohabitation.

John had, quite stubbornly and much to Jim’s disappointment, stuck to his promise of sleeping on the couch while Jim took the one bedroom. Even after the first night, Jim could tell that the couch wasn’t doing his body any favors, as John walked around the flat that morning rubbing his back and wincing slightly at movements that tweaked it. It caused Jim to hide delighted smiles behind his coffee cup, altogether pleased with the knowledge that John was going to eventually _have_ to break down and choose between damaging something and sleeping in the same bed as Jim. He was actually surprised at how long he managed to last, but then again, his pet was always so determined, wasn’t he? But Friday night—perfect, because Jim didn’t have to get up early the next day, and while he knew it couldn’t have been purposeful on John’s part a tiny thrill went through him at the thought that it was—found Jim lying awake in bed once again, scrolling through his mobile as he listened to his iPod and tried to find _something_ to quiet his overactive mind. It was no use, he already knew that; Jim took to sleep about as well as cats to water, no matter how hard he tried to tempt it to come to him. The thought occurred to him as he organized yet another assassination long range solely through text that tempting sleep was nearly as hard as winning over John Watson, and the thought made him giggle aloud, nearly covering up the soft knock on the bedroom door. Jim paused, removing an earbud to listen, and sure enough, there it was again. If it was Seb with something inconsequential, he was honestly going to kill the man.

“Who is iiiiiit?” he called out in his best sing-song, and his heart skipped a beat when he heard John’s voice.

“John. Can I come in?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Jim said, sitting up in bed and doing his best to tone down the wolf’s grin that settled over his features. He knew where this was headed.

John was clearly hesitant when he slipped into the room, a sliver of light from the hallway catching his hair before it disappeared behind the closed door. He leaned back against it, seeming wary of getting any closer to Jim at the moment, though Jim was at his most vulnerable and least threatening at the moment. He was shirtless in the bed, his black sweatpants hidden under a ridiculously large comforter, his hair messy and out of its usual slicked back order. Besides that, it was clearly the bedroom of an insomniac because there were books all over the space next to the bed, notebooks and heavy volumes and even some manga in the original Japanese, and Jim had a laptop on the nightstand next to the bed, plus his mobile and his iPod on the bed with him. John took in all of these details, Jim patiently waiting, and then said, “Can’t sleep?”

“Very good, Johnny boy, pick up some skills from Sherlock?” Jim asked with a smile, and John shook his head, the answering smile from him a reward in itself.

“More like I saw his insomnia on a daily basis and I know the signs,” he answered, then paused for a moment. “I…well, I was wondering if it would be possible—not that I want to—but—”

“Yes, you can sleep in here,” Jim said, watching John’s adorable stutters with an amused expression. “I promise I won’t even try to cop a feel.”

John snorted, though it sounded more nervous than anything. It took a few minutes of Jim holding his breath before John finally came over, slipping into the side of the bed that Jim had left unoccupied and rolling onto his side to face away from Jim. This made Jim frown slightly, but hey, at least John was here. It was a step in the right direction. Jim lay back down, leaving the one earbud out to listen to John’s breathing and picking up his mobile again. After a few minutes, during which he picked up John’s breathing pattern and synchronized with him, he heard, “What are you listening to?”

“If you want to find out, you’ll have to listen too,” Jim answered, somehow keeping the smile off his face that was trying to fight its way out. There was a slight sigh from John, and after a few minutes he rolled over to face Jim, his blue eyes still guarded, but perhaps a little less so. He held out his hand and Jim obligingly handed him the other earbud, shifting onto his side to face John so the cord wouldn’t have to stretch as much. John nearly immediately closed his eyes, and a few minutes later, he was fast asleep, Jim able to gaze all he liked. He could touch, too, gently letting his fingers run over the hair he was now so familiar with, and John didn’t even stir. Wasn’t this lovely? Staying in the same bed as John, sharing music with him, touching his soft blonde hair once again…Jim didn’t even notice it when he drifted off to sleep.

His sleep schedule improved significantly because of John. The next day he actually woke up later than the doctor, who smiled at him with something between amusement and self-satisfaction when Jim wandered out of the bedroom, disoriented. Every night after that, Jim managed to sleep for at least a few hours, calmed by the steady rhythm of John’s breathing and the sight of the other man next to him. Funny, he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d shared a bed with someone platonically, and even the people he slept with he didn’t actually _sleep_ with, mostly for security purposes. He hadn’t realized how much better he felt having someone next to him, instead of having a bed littered with electronics and discarded distractions. John, for his part, didn’t seem to have much trouble falling asleep around Jim, which Jim found absolutely wonderful. He was sure that this was a new phenomenon, because certainly John wouldn’t have trusted him enough to sleep near him when this whole plan was originally set into motion. And really, wasn’t this the ultimate test of trust? Letting down your guard completely, lying next to someone when you couldn’t defend yourself, allowing them to see you at your most vulnerable. Of course, the fact that Jim slept for once in his life around John indicated trust on his part as well, and something more besides, but Jim didn’t even spare a thought for it. He was feeling so much better now that he was actually getting some rest, so why question the source of his comfort? No, better to sidle closer to John when the doctor was asleep on the bed, watching him as they continued to face each and share the music that Jim used to calm himself. But Jim was also exposed to the other, hidden side of John Watson one night when he was awoken by the sound of screaming. He was instantly dragged back into consciousness to find John thrashing on the bed, clearly in the throes of some nightmare that was strong enough to cause a physical reaction. He immediately sat up in bed, reaching over to shake John and call his name repeatedly, and after a few minutes of this John’s eyes opened, his breathing harsh and what appeared to be tears running reluctantly down his face. Jim kept his hand on his shoulder and was surprised to find the usually unflappable man shaking under his fingers.

After a few minutes of breathless silence, Jim asked, “Where were you?”

“Afghanistan,” John said breathlessly, and Jim lay back down on the bed, facing him, though John remained on his back.

“Do you go there often?”

John closed his eyes, his chest still heaving as he tried to regain his breath. “More than I would like,” he said, and reached up to clutch at his left shoulder.

Jim was silent for a minute, and then gently tugged on John’s wrist, rolling the other man into his chest and wrapping an arm around him. John tensed at first, clearly uncomfortable, but then put his forehead against Jim’s collarbone as Jim started carding his fingers through sweat dampened golden hair. He fell asleep like that, curled into Jim’s chest and breathing steadily as Jim continued to run his fingers through John’s hair, gently soothing him as best he could. Jim found that his heart was fluttering in his chest far too much for him to sleep, the damnable organ deciding that now was as good a time as any to see how fast it could beat. He couldn’t quite calm down, until he took the time to listen and sync his breathing with John’s once more, his heart gently slowing down until he slipped into a light sleep that he popped back out of every time John stirred, making sure that the other man stayed asleep and in his arms. The next morning found him gently spooning John Watson, an arm wrapped around his waist, his slightly taller frame allowing him to have his face pressed into the back of John’s head, deeply breathing in his scent. He found himself awake first, John not even stirring in his embrace, and gently kissed the back of his neck before getting up in search of coffee, rubbing his hair with his hand. By the time he was seated at the counter with coffee and an omelet of his own making, he heard the sounds of John getting up and taking advantage of the bathroom attached to the bedroom before he emerged from the bedroom, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Morning,” Jim said conversationally, and John didn’t raise his eyes to look at him when he responded in kind. Oh, of course, supposedly heterosexual, former soldier John was embarrassed at having shown a supposed sign of weakness in front of someone he still considered an enemy.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Johnny,” Jim said, putting down his coffee cup as he grimaced. “It’s perfectly alright for two grown men to cuddle platonically after one of them has a bad dream. You needed comfort and I provided it, there’s no shame in that.”

John finally raised his eyes to look at him, a hesitation there though there was also a sense of relief. Jim offered him a smile, slipping back into something closer to the persona of Jim from IT, and said, “There’s no reason for us to make a big deal about it. Sit down and I’ll make you an omelet.”

And that was the day that Jim considered the turning point in his war against John Watson’s heart. Because after that, John seemed to change his attitude towards Jim, his behavior becoming more friendly and less closed off. Certainly, he was still cautious around him, but there seemed to be an easier air of interaction between them, one that spoke less of captor and captive than it used to. Jim found it to be absolutely wonderful, another step closer to John and the inevitable conclusion to this game. Though it was feeling less and less like a game every day. What was he supposed to do after he broke John? Reveal to Sherlock what had actually happened, of course, and gloat, but then what? Return him to Sherlock broken and damaged just so the detective could fall apart? Just the very thought of giving up John made that sick, clenching feeling in his stomach return. Goddamn, every time he thought about John and Sherlock that damn feeling returned, what the hell was it? If Jim couldn’t classify it then he couldn’t get rid of it, and he was tired of getting nauseous and angry every time he tried to plan out Sherlock Holmes’s destruction by way of John Watson.

In the meantime, John didn’t seem to suspect anything about Jim’s motives, seeming to believe that the other man was quite literally wooing him. Which, Jim had to admit, was actually fun. It was entertaining to see John’s various reactions to his gifts, or just suggestions of gifts—“No, Jim, I do not want an actual human heart, I don’t care where you get it from”—and getting closer to John, whether physically or otherwise, made something warm bloom across his chest that he couldn’t quite identify either. It just…felt nice, to have John’s attention focused on him, to actually earn smiles from the other man. To know that he was returning some of the pleasure he felt in John’s presence. Yes, that was it. He felt some sort of odd, out of place pleasure in John’s presence that he couldn’t explain. Sure, he supposed he liked the doctor as a person, but he also liked Seb a lot and he didn’t feel like this around Seb. It didn’t make any sense. Jim, as a rule, understood human emotions as much as he needed to. He could use them to influence and manipulate the people around him, but personally he was mostly above them. Anger, yes, was a familiar one, as well as that rush of satisfaction he got when a job was done correctly. Sadness came rarely because he had little to no sense of regret for anything in his life, but sometimes it did visit him, and certainly he had his black moods. But these new emotions he was associating with John, both the good and the bad, were impossible to place and categorize. He just didn’t know what to do with them. They both made him want to rip off Sherlock’s head and get as physically close to John as possible, and though he was quite used to dualities, maintaining himself as much of a paradox as possible, this one seemed to tear him into two, conflicting him at the worst possible moments. He could be in the middle of a meeting with two of his higher ranking officers, and suddenly imagine shaking the life out of Sherlock Holmes for ever getting so close to John, or he could be in the middle of supervising a torture session and suddenly see John’s blue eyes, disapproving. He hardly even knew what he wanted anymore. But, moving forward with the plan was the only way to proceed. So he continued to work his way closer to John, doing his best to worm into the doctor’s very heart.

The fact that they were sleeping in the same bed now should have made it easier—especially considering the nightmare incident—but Jim just found that it called up an insatiable urge to hold John like that again, to just touch the doctor and allow his hands to roam over his skin. That, of course, led to thoughts of what John’s lips would feel like and how he would taste and what sounds he would make and what spots would make his breath hitch—and Jim had to forcefully shake himself out of those thoughts because they had such a strong hold over him that he’d find himself reaching out for John without thinking. He supposed that it was the inevitable result of becoming so deeply involved in his role; like an actor method acting, he’d completely slipped into the mindset of his role, and that influenced both his thoughts and actions. That was all. His mind was highly suggestible, after all, so it was very easy for it to adopt new affectations and ideas. And the ideas that were currently pouring out in abundance almost all involved John Watson, and Jim was suffering under the weight of being unable to touch his pet aside from when they did their usual routine involving John’s still wonderful hair. It made him lie awake at night next to John, the sheets clenched tight in his fists as he resisted the infuriating urge to just tug the other man straight to his chest. No, no. it wouldn’t do to ruin all of his careful progress with John with a few hasty gestures. He would wait. It was a slow process, and had to be done with a delicate touch. John, after all, was such a lovely pet, so his training had to be impeccable.

But, ah, progress was being slowly made. One night John was tossing and turning, clearly unable to sleep, and anytime John couldn’t sleep, Jim couldn’t sleep either. Which was terribly inconvenient, but considering before John he’d barely been able to sleep at all, he really couldn’t complain.

“If you roll over one more time I’m going to fetch the hydrochloric acid,” Jim threatened lightly from his side of the bed without any real menace, scrolling through his mobile for a distraction. “And no, flipping your pillow over a fourth time won’t help either.”

“Well I’m sorry, what do you propose?” John asked, leaning up on his elbows from where he’d been lying on his stomach. He fixed Jim with an irritated glare, and Jim said nonchalantly, “You could always curl up with me.”

John was silent for a moment, Jim watching him from his peripheral vision as he pretended to be engrossed in his phone when really he was waiting breathlessly. “What?” John finally asked, and Jim had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the lack of originality in that response. He tossed his mobile down on the bed, turning his head to look at John.

“It seemed to put you to sleep very quickly after your nightmare,” he responded. “Cuddling releases oxytocin, which increases your overall happiness, and the practice has also been shown to reduce stress and blood pressure.” He arched an eyebrow. “You’re a doctor, doesn’t that sound beneficial?”

John was staring at Jim as if he’d suddenly grown a second head, though it was hard for him to completely pull off ‘surprised’ when he also looked exhausted. “You mean you want to,” he said flatly, and Jim’s eyes closed as he turned to the ceiling and seemed to mouth a plea to God for a little understanding. He turned back to John after a moment, eyes popping open as he made a deliberately shocked face.

“No, me? The man who’s been wooing you for weeks? Why on earth would I want that?”

“Alright, no need to be a prat about it,” John said, rolling his eyes, but suddenly he had his head on Jim’s shoulder, part of his chest against Jim’s and his arm across Jim’s waist, and Jim had himself an armful of John Watson. He couldn’t even think for a second before he put an arm around John, the other resting his hand against John’s arm across his waist, drawing lazy circles on John’s forearm as John sighed and shuffled and settled against him. They lay in breathless silence—which was quite literally breathless for Jim for a few moments before he remembered how to breathe—for a few minutes, both just acclimating to the new, intimate circumstances.

“Your heart’s beating awfully fast,” John mumbled sleepily after a few minutes, and Jim realized that yes, indeed, his pulse had increased significantly since the moment John’s body had first come into contact with his.  
“Go to sleep, love,” Jim said, doing his best to sound dismissive and bored. John made a noise of protest but he was out like a light within minutes, lips parted as he breathed deeply against Jim. Jim, for his part, felt so electrified that sleep was about the furthest thing from his mind. He was acutely, painfully aware of every point of contact between their bodies, of every inch of John that touched him and every sensation revolving around John that he could currently feel (soft, tanned skin that should have been rougher, gentle, steady breathing, a heartbeat against Jim’s ribs). It was an overload of information to his oversensitive nerves, and when they weakly sent signals to his beleaguered brain, he nearly drowned in sensory overload. Instead, the overwhelming awareness tired him out, his eyes slipping shut numerous times in long, slow blinks, before he drifted off to sleep with John in his arms. It was the best sleep he had ever had.

Once again, John was up before him, and had actually made coffee for him even though he himself mostly drank tea. But the best thing, the very best thing, was that instead of averting his gaze in shame like he had after the nightmare incident, John offered him a small, secret smile that seemed almost unconscious before hiding behind his newspaper to drink tea while Jim made breakfast. Yes, yes yes yes yes yes! This was such an unbelievably significant step forward. John _liked_ cuddling with Jim, enjoyed the physical contact between them, and Jim nearly started bouncing around the flat from excitement. This was a huge step forward, one that would allow him to slowly increase his contact with John until the man completely fell to him. An excited anticipation started fluttering in Jim’s stomach, because the next step was the kiss. And oh, his mind took to that idea like it had to the concept of explosives.

Because already, the thoughts of what John’s lips would feel like and what he would taste like and how it would happen had been bouncing around his head for weeks, and he wanted to answer those questions NOW. Jim could be very patient when he wanted to, but it seemed that it was impossible for him to be patient when it came to John. He just wanted all of him, all the time. But John was a rare creature, and as such, had to be handled delicately. A misstep now could cost him the entire game. And that would mean losing everything he’d built with John, the smiles and the close contact at night and the easier air between them and _god_ , John’s hair. No. No no no. That couldn’t happen.

So he waited, distracting himself from thoughts of John’s lips by categorizing the other man’s habits, preferences, expressions, whatever he could. A lot of it was ground he’d covered before, but he revisited earlier efforts, readjusting them to fit later observations, and started to fill in the few gaps left in his knowledge of John Watson. It was funny, really, how well he’d gotten to know John when he hadn’t even spared a thought for him before the doctor ended up with his head in Jim’s lap and Sherlock Holmes decided to burn out his heart himself. Maybe that was why he so intensely disliked the idea of letting him go; he’d gotten to know him so well and he’d put in so much work and it would be a waste to destroy that and give back Sherlock Holmes a wounded pet. Surely there was another way to accomplish his goals, one that didn’t involve giving up John. There had to be some way for him to keep him. The knowledge that he wanted to keep John wasn’t entirely surprising to him; after all, he was generally a possessive person and he’d been referring to John as his for weeks now. The only problem was that the two goals didn’t match up—if he kept John after breaking him, John wouldn’t be the same as he was now, and that was the John he wanted to keep. But if he didn’t break John, what was the point of all this? What would he have gained? No, John had to be broken, and after that point he could decide what exactly to do with him. So Jim stopped turning that thought over in his mind and focused on the more important things, like how to get John to sleep against him every night.

Because after the first night, it hadn’t become routine like Jim had wanted and expected it to. No, John stubbornly clung to his personal space on the nights when he could sleep perfectly well, though he no longer fought with Jim about it if he had a nightmare or couldn’t sleep, just curled up against him in the way that made Jim’s pulse suddenly start tapping out rapid Morse code. If John noticed again, he didn’t comment on it, and Jim found that slowly, ever so slowly, his body would adjust to having John against it and eventually calm down enough to sleep. It helped if he synched his breathing pattern with John’s, matching the slow, steady breaths that would eventually calm his heartbeat, but he was entirely frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t synchronize his pulse as well. That was too difficult, even for his genius mind, so he settled for breathing and enjoying the time he had with John against him.

But that was only when John allowed their contact to happen. On nights when they were apart, John maintained a certain ratio of space between them, though he would usually share Jim’s music with him, lying on his side to face the other man. It at least allowed Jim to memorize the lines of John’s face while he slept, the sight of the other man calm and peaceful providing a warmth in his chest, a kind of happy rush. And he could at least touch John during the day, run his hands through his blonde hair as much as he liked because John didn’t move away too early anymore. He’d actually fallen asleep a few times on Jim’s lap, which was the most surprising and delightful thing.

Seb had looked on with what appeared to be amusement—but who really knew with that man, it was like trying to read the emotions of a brick wall—though he, of course, didn’t comment on the proceedings. That was really why Jim liked having him around so much; he understood his job, took it seriously, and didn’t offer opinions unless asked for them. And when he expressed those opinions, he did it clearly and succinctly, without wasting unnecessary, superfluous words. John was similar in his brevity, but he was also slightly more verbose and definitely more eloquent, and was altogether extremely happy to offer his opinion.

Not that Jim minded. He liked listening to John talk, and though the man spent a good chunk of his time trying to get his morals to rub off on Jim, he did actually have some very interesting things to say. Jim was also extremely relieved that Sherlock didn’t come up as a subject again. John didn’t seem to want to talk or even think about him anymore, and Jim didn’t want to risk progress by bringing him up. There was no point to it anyway; if John hadn’t started to have at least a few ill feelings towards the detective by now, then he wouldn’t have any at all. If Jim had learned anything, it was that John was loyal to a fault, and that meant that he might never be able to completely change John’s opinion of Sherlock. But god, did he want John’s loyalty to turn to him…he wanted John to be willing to kill a man for him, to attempt to sacrifice himself to save him from death, to fight for him no matter what the cost. He would never, ever allow his Johnny to be hurt, but he wanted the thought to be there, the desire, the certainty that John would never give up on him or fail him. What did he have to do to earn that?

“What did Sherlock do to earn your loyalty, Johnny boy?” Jim asked one day when they were on the couch, John’s head on his lap as he carded his fingers through his blonde hair repeatedly, John’s eyes having slipped shut long ago under the soothing touch.

They opened now, sapphire blue looking directly up at Jim in a way that made Jim’s heart flutter. “Hmm?” John asked, and then seemed to process the question, his brow furrowing. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” Jim lied smoothly. “Most people don’t kill a man for someone they barely know.”

John chuckled, an unexpected reaction. “I may have barely known him, but he certainly knew me. He knew me within five minutes of meeting me, and yet I don’t think he quite expected me to shoot someone for him.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, pet,” Jim said with a slight frown.

John sighed and closed his eyes again, Jim’s hand continuing its motions. After a minute, he said, “I shot a man for Sherlock because it was the right thing to do. I had to do it, to save him. Because he was going to possibly poison himself for the sake of his own ego, and a brilliant mind like that had to be saved from its own stupidity. So I shot the person who needed to be shot anyway, and stopped Sherlock before he damaged himself. The man was a killer anyway, I considered it to be due justice as well as a rescue.” He fell silent for a minute, until Jim asked, “So would you shoot someone just to save my brilliant mind?”

John’s eyes flew open with an alarming speed, peering up at Jim in some combination of alarm and concern. He didn’t answer for a minute, apparently considering his words carefully, and then asked, “Why would you ask that?”

Jim made sure his shrug was extremely casual. “I’m quite the curious person, John.”

“You have a brilliant mind, yes, but you also run a criminal empire that’s a constant danger to the world at large,” John said, still staring at him. “If, somehow, you were the lesser of two evils in a situation and I had a gun, yes, I suppose I would shoot someone to protect your brilliant mind.”

He looked away then, Jim’s hand moving to brush his thumb soothingly over John’s temple. A few more still minutes passed before John said, “While we’re all being so honest here, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Johnny,” Jim replied, though a type of nervous anticipation started fluttering in his stomach. He really had no idea what John was going to ask, and it could be something awful like, ‘how many people have you killed’, or ‘why are you so sadistic’, or the worst one, ‘are you ever going to let me go?’

“When did all this start?” John asked, waving one hand vaguely. “The criminal enterprising, I mean.” His eyes returned to Jim’s and Jim could see an honest curiosity there, no animosity or hidden motives.

Oh thank god. That wasn’t a bad question at all. “Officially? When I was a teenager. Unofficially? When I was nine.”

“When you were nine?” John asked, his voice incredulous and slightly raised.

Jim smiled slightly at his reaction, though he knew John wouldn’t like this next part. “That’s how old I was when I killed my parents,” he said, and John’s eyes instantly turned to ice as he seemed to suddenly remember exactly whose lap his head was in. “Don’t look at me like that, honey, you didn’t know them.”

John’s voice had a flinty edge when he spoke. “Oh really? And how exactly were they so terrible that they deserved to die?”

“Seb, out,” Jim instantly ordered, looking up at the other man. He very carefully made sure that no one, not even Seb, knew anything about his life that could be used against him, and he could only tell John this because it would help along his plan, and John didn’t have any way to use the knowledge against him. Seb wavered for a minute, looking like he was about to protest, but Jim fixed him with a look that brooked no argument, causing the ex-colonel to slowly move to the door to the flat, shutting it behind himself. Jim was no longer afraid of John Watson hurting him. The one obstacle removed, Jim looked back at John, who was regarding him with a type of cautious curiosity. “I hope you understand, Johnny boy,” Jim said, slowly beginning to stroke John’s hair again, his eyes on his hand, “that you’re about to hear things no one else has ever heard. Things that if you repeat them to anyone, I will have to kill you, no matter how much I may like you. Understood?”

John stared at him until Jim met his eyes, that same guarded look in their azure depths. After a moment, he nodded, and Jim huffed out a slight sigh, leaning his head back and staring up at the ceiling. “My parents were the type of people who believed children shouldn’t be heard, let alone seen. They didn’t want any children, and I was the only one. An accident.” His voice was stripped of all artifice; no sing-song, no lilt—aside from the slight Irish tinges on the edges—nothing to hide behind. This was pure, unfiltered truth, and the words tasted bitter as they crossed his lips. “I call them my parents, but they didn’t do anything resembling parenting. I was left to my own devices for most of my childhood, and that meant in every aspect. I had to clothe myself, feed myself, take care of myself, their only concessions being giving me access to the house and sending me to school. They pretended I didn’t exist. They didn’t touch me, they didn’t look at me, they didn’t speak to me unless they had to. My name was only used as an exclamation, a curse. It didn’t matter what I did for them, they didn’t change their behavior towards me in the slightest. So when I was nine, I made sure they went for a Sunday drive that they never made it back from.”

He lifted his head again to look at John, who was watching him with rapt attention, something like pity—no, sympathy, in his gaze. Good. Sympathy Jim could at least grit his teeth and deal with, but pity he could not. Somehow, though, it wasn’t hard to accept the sympathy from John. It actually soothed him, making him feel better, like John’s understanding his pain helped to lessen it some. “After that, I started going to the school where I started my criminal enterprise. And where I was bullied extensively because people fear the things they don’t understand. It didn’t matter to me, because by the time I got out of school, I was already forming a web of criminals across London, with threads that were all coming together with me at the center. By the time I was out of Uni, I was James Moriarty, the most feared man in London.” He smiled at John, swirling some of John’s soft hair with his hand, letting blonde strands slip through his fingers. “So you see, John? Not quite the monster you make me out to be.”

There was a hushed silence, their gazes locked, John’s holding something stronger than sympathy and Jim’s as blank as he could make it, his slightly mocking smile fixed on his lips. And then John did the most unexpected thing, by sitting up, turning, and throwing his arms around Jim’s neck to pull him into a hug.

Oh. Oh _wow_. This was…well, wonderful. Sure he’d had John close before—in a bed, even—but that was different, that was a symbiotic relationship. Mutually beneficial. This…this was John comforting Jim and holding him close without anything to gain on his side. He was just honestly trying to help the other man and show him that this was alright. It didn’t make any sense to Jim because there was never _not_ an ulterior motive behind his actions; everything had a point, and the meaning of altruism was lost on him. But John was a different breed, a selfless breed, and Jim had always known that. But he never thought it’d apply to him as well.

After a few frozen moments where Jim was prevented from moving by simple shock, he managed to wrap his arms around the doctor’s waist, pulling him close and burying his nose in John’s shoulder. God, John smelled so _good_. It was a scent that Jim had slowly been getting more used to, exposed to it whenever John was in his arms or John just stood close by. It was lovely, and intoxicating, and it made him never want to let John go. And _god_ , John wasn’t even trying to pull away. He seemed content to stay like this for as long as Jim liked, and though Jim had made peace with his past and didn’t particularly need any comfort, he wasn’t going to let go of John if he didn’t have to. So they stayed together for a long time, neither speaking, both of them just breathing and hanging on. Eventually, though, John said, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Jim asked, hoping John wasn’t going to move anytime soon.

“For telling me those things. I mean, you could be making it all up and using it to win me over, but I don’t think you are. I believe you.” He laughed slightly, his body vibrating against Jim’s, and Jim couldn’t decide whether the sensation or the sound was better. “God, I must sound mad, saying I believe you of all people about a sob story about your past. I guess we proved Stockholm Syndrome is real.”

“Does that mean you like me, Johnny boy?” Jim asked, his tone slightly teasing as he smiled against John’s shoulder, but then, oh no, John was pulling away and he didn’t want this to stop—

But John was smiling at him and keeping his hands on either side of Jim’s face, cupping his cheekbones with his thumbs, and saying, “Yeah, I think it does.” And then he leaned forward and kissed Jim.

Out of all the scenarios he’d thought of and all the possibilities he’d considered, he’d never, for even one second, pictured John kissing him. He thought he’d have to practically wrestle the other man into it, maybe get pushed away halfway through, _something_ , and instead, here John was, laying his lips against Jim’s with a tenderness that Jim hadn’t expected. He couldn’t even kiss back for a minute, too shocked by the action, and then John started to pull away slightly, most likely confused by Jim’s lack of reaction, and that was what finally spurred Jim into motion.

His hands found the front of John’s shirt, fingers wrapping themselves around the fabric and pulling the other man as close as possible, kissing him back with a fervor that didn’t match John’s tenderness. John, for his part, made a surprised noise against Jim’s lips, evidently caught off guard by the sudden change, and Jim felt a rush of pride at the fact that even though John had taken the first step, Jim could take the control back now, put his plan back on track without John unexpectedly making it jump the track. Which meant that he could take control of the kiss now that John was a little off balance, a little dazed, and he immediately took advantage by running his tongue along the doctor’s bottom lip for what felt like eons before John finally, finally opened his mouth to Jim and let him in.

Fuck, John tasted _fantastic_. Jim felt something painfully strong and sweet swelling through his chest before it was overtaken by the slow flame curling in his lower abdomen, just the beginnings of desire, started by the images his brain had been coming up with for weeks and fueled now by the fulfillment of some of those images and the tangible feel and taste of John under his lips and on his tongue. For someone who claimed to be so staunchly heterosexual and by all rights should have been looking for dominance in the kiss, John was submitting pretty readily, though that was probably partially because Jim really wasn’t offering him another option.

But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more from him, wanted more of John, wanted to have the other man laid bare beneath him, wanted everything now and _fuck_ was this good. His hands seemed to develop a mind of their own, one moving to wind fingers through that blonde hair he loved so much, the other moving down to slip underneath the edge of John’s shirt, getting just the barest touch of soft skin before John was pulling back, one hand catching the hand under his shirt by the wrist. Jim reluctantly opened his eyes again, finding an adorable, slightly flushed John next to him who shook his head slightly, smiling with a cross between embarrassment and apology. “Ah, sorry. Not okay with that, at the moment,” John said, putting Jim’s hand back in his lap. Jim immediately used that hand to latch onto John’s, intertwining his fingers with the other man’s. Losing physical contact with him right now was unthinkable.

John seemed surprised by the gesture but didn’t say anything, letting his hand stay entwined with Jim’s. “You’re a constant surprise, John,” Jim said after a minute, and John, the lovely dear, chuckled.

“Yeah, I suppose I am,” he said, running his free hand over his hair. “Surprised myself with that one. It’s actually a good thing you sent Seb out, I don’t think I could’ve done it with him here.” The slightly abashed smile that he gave Jim was adorable. Okay, so maybe he was mildly obsessed with John. He’d already known that since the day John punched him in the face for talking about Sherlock, really, and had just mostly been denying it until he couldn’t anymore. But that was fine, an infatuation would help him play his part and it would fade quickly once everything was done and over with. Jim still had everything under control. After all, he’d just won a major battle in this war; not only had he finally gotten to kiss John, but John had actually been the one to initiate it, which was a huge step.

“We’re going about this in a bit of a roundabout way, aren’t we?” John asked with a chuckle. “You know, staying in the same bed before we’ve even kissed?”

“Well I would’ve kissed you much earlier, but I took the punch in the face as a sign to back off a bit,” Jim answered with a smile.

“Yeah, still not sorry about that, you were being a prat.”

Jim snorted and John smiled. Oh, John was actually trying to get him to laugh. This was all so nice, wasn’t it? They were so very domestic. More domestic than Jim had ever been with anyone, really. Well, to be fair, he couldn’t really say that he’d ever really lived with someone he was romantically interested in—or pretending to be such, he had to remind himself—and he’d never had an obsession with someone like this, mild as it was. Sure, he’d been attracted to people before, but it was always in a fleeting manner. Even if they lasted after the first fuck he got bored with them quickly, discarding them for someone else because no one seemed to be able to hold his interest for very long. They were all so very ordinary and _dull_ , and he just didn’t care enough to listen when they spoke.

With John, it was different. Maybe it was just because he’d had to put so much time and effort into it and had _just_ gotten to kissing him. Because John was a special case, and needed special attentions. And Jim had actually liked giving them to him, which was an odd, new experience. John Watson was much more interesting than he seemed. Maybe that was where the mild obsession had come from. Or maybe he was just too far into his role and it was getting to him. Whatever the reason, he knew he could handle it. He could always handle it.

“I am sorry about that,” Jim said, his smile fading. “Not for what I said, but for upsetting you.”

“You’re…you’re actually apologizing for something?” John asked, sounding slightly puzzled.

Jim nodded. He was actually sorry, too, which was the oddest thing. Regret was not a word that frequented his vocabulary. John had an odd look in his eyes now and Jim asked, “Sherlock never apologized for anything, did he?”

John gave a short laugh. “No, you would’ve thought saying it would kill him.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Not exactly in his vocabulary.”

“That’s a shame,” Jim said, and John moved his hand to look at him, his brow furrowed.

“Why is that?”

“Because you deserve an apology for a lot of the things he did to you. He asked me to kill you for him, that’s more than a bit not good.”

John sighed, pulling his hand out of Jim’s grip and putting both on his own legs as he got up from the couch, much to Jim’s alarm. John didn’t go far, though, just to the kitchen to start making tea. “Yeah, I’m still not 100% on what happened there,” he said as he got the kettle out, and Jim debated whether or not to get up for about two seconds before he followed, going to lean against the counter and watch John.

“You don’t believe me,” he stated, and John looked up at him through long blonde lashes. His lips pursed for a second, and then he shook his head.

“I wouldn’t say that. I don’t really know what to believe. You don’t just live with someone and become friends with them like that and just decide to off them one day because you can’t stand to have feelings anymore.” He paused, looking at the kettle on the stove for a minute before lifting his gaze back up to Jim. “I know Sherlock, and I know he wouldn’t tell you to just get rid of me unless it was for good reason. When you got that text from him, did you immediately think you were going to go through with it?”

Jim didn’t like this line of questioning at all. “No, I thought I’d keep you.” The fact that John didn’t show any negative reaction to that statement had a warmth blooming through Jim’s chest.

“And maybe Sherlock knew you’d think that,” John said. “Look, I know you probably already considered every possible motive he could have and looked at the situation from every angle, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about geniuses it’s that you’re all clueless when it comes to emotions. Aside from maybe Mycroft, because he’s more in touch with the world than the rest of you. But you and Sherlock?” He chuckled. “The two of you should have a competition to see who understands human emotions less and who can repress theirs the most. So look at it from the emotional angle. If Sherlock really cared about me, he’d try to get you to ‘keep me’ instead of killing me. It’s much more likely that he’d do that than try to have me killed because he can’t handle sentiment.”

He went to pull two mugs out of the cabinet—good, Jim didn’t even have to ask him for one because John was nothing if not considerate, though the fact that he applied that consideration to Jim wasn’t lost on the genius—and Jim sat down on one of the stools at the counter, thinking it over. Of course he’d considered that it might be a bluff on Sherlock’s part, but he’d dismissed that because he saw Sherlock as he saw himself, only weaker; they would both do whatever it took to avoid becoming mired in human emotions, only Sherlock had fallen to them in the form of John Watson and so tried to get rid of them. It didn’t make any sense to Jim that Sherlock’s reaction would have been to save the man instead. Rather than becoming an emotionless robot, he’d handed off his bruised heart to John and then tricked Jim into keeping it safe. So instead of repressing his emotions once more and returning to his natural state, Sherlock had chosen to keep feeling. For John. Just for John.

The question occurred to Jim of whether or not he would do the same in that situation, and the answer came almost immediately. Yes, yes he would choose to find a way to save John. Because the thought of being responsible for the other man’s death…John mentally shook himself from that line of thought, returning to his analysis of Sherlock’s actions in the context of his feelings for John. His stomach twisted sickly—in the way it usually did when he thought of Sherlock and John these days—at the thought of the other genius sacrificing his own neglected heart to keep John safe. Then the most terrible thought occurred to him.

“Did you love him?” he asked, his pulse speeding up to the point that it nearly made his body shake with every beat of his heart. John froze where he was, in the process of getting the milk from the fridge with his back to Jim, and then turned around to slowly put it on the counter. He stared at it for a minute, his expression unreadable, even to Jim, and then said, “I didn’t even know he was in love with me, and I still don’t quite believe he is.” His eyes finally moved back up from the milk to Jim’s eyes, his gaze carrying a comforting weight. “It makes it difficult to determine my own feelings on the matter.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, darling,” Jim said, his eyes watching John carefully, and John pursed his lips.

“I don’t know,” he answered after a minute. “I loved him as a friend, certainly, but I’m not sure how far my feelings extended beyond that.”

“But they did extend beyond that.”

John paused for a minute again, his eyes roaming the kitchen as he thought. “Yes. Yes they did. I suppose I’ll never know how far, because I don’t think you’re exactly going to ever let me go after you arranged for the rest of the world to believe I’m dead.” He paused for a moment, frowning slightly. “Did the romantic interest start before or after you kidnapped me?”

“After,” Jim said, his voice a little more subdued at the reminder that at the core, this was still a captor-captive situation. Why did John viewing it that way make him feel so sick?

“And if the situation was reversed, would you do the same thing that Sherlock did?”

“Yes,” Jim answered immediately, having already sorted out his feelings on the matter.

John nodded slowly, clearly in the middle of considering the answer but seeming satisfied with Jim’s honesty in the matter, before the tea kettle going off diverted his attention. They were both silent as he quickly prepared the tea, getting Jim’s preferences exactly right from memory, much to Jim’s delight. He gently placed the cup on the counter in front of Jim and they took sips in tandem, placing the cups down at the same time. John started chuckling at this within a few seconds and Jim joined him with a giggle, both of them laughing softly for a few minutes.

After the laughter had died down, John said, “God, this is all so very strange, I feel like I’ve gone a bit mad. Geniuses in love with me, my faked death, kidnappings, kissing the most feared man in London…I didn’t exactly sign up for all of this when I agreed to be Sherlock’s flatmate.”

Jim smiled, taking a sip of his tea. “And how exactly do I rank as a flatmate compared to Sherlock?”

“You’re a lot more overt than he is, that’s for certain,” John said with a chuckle. “Where he’s subtle, you’re ostentatious. But you’re very similar in a lot of ways.”

“How so?”

“Well, the insomnia for one,” John said, and there was a pause as he took a sip of tea, in which Jim said, “You seem to be curing me of that, though.”

The smile that spread over John’s face as he moved his cup away from his lips was absolutely stunning. “Well I never exactly cuddled with Sherlock, so I wouldn’t know if I could cure his as well.” He set his cup down. “But you’re both certainly absolute nutters a good percent of the time, and brilliant the rest of it. You can also both be frightening, but in different ways. You because—well, because you’re you and I’ve heard your phone conversations before, and him because sometimes he seems more similar to you than he should be. He was excited by your puzzles even though he knew people would, and did die.” He sighed heavily. “So I’m stuck between a murderer and a self-proclaimed sociopath. Brilliant,” he said, taking another sip of his tea.

Jim frowned. John’s view of him was entirely accurate but it wasn’t the one he wanted him to have. Maybe it would be different if he’d stuck with his persona of Jim from IT for the entire time he knew John. Then again, John had said he liked this version of Jim, the one that allowed long glimpses of his true character underneath the bullshit that he had to use to protect himself. That in itself was amazing because god, everything with the real Jim seemed to go against what John believed in. John knew he was a killer—though, to be fair, John was something of a killer himself—on sometimes a mass scale, not to mention the numerous other crimes and sins Jim was guilty of. It was entirely possible that John was attracted to him just because of the danger inherent in the situation, but even as the thought crossed his mind Jim knew it wasn’t true. He had felt it in John’s hug, the selfless contact he’d initiated just because his natural response was to comfort Jim. Even though Jim was a killer. Even though at one point he’d threated John’s life and the life of the person closest to him. Even though Jim was more than a little unbalanced. Was this what normal people meant when they talked about completely accepting each other’s flaws no matter what? Because suddenly Jim understood. It felt absolutely amazing, to know that John was slowly accepting all of his flaws, though he might try to fix them in his own way.

Jim put a hand to his chest, trying to rub out the pain that had suddenly appeared there. John’s eyes caught the motion, the expression in them unreadable, and Jim couldn’t figure out what on earth the man was so fixated on. Unlike with most people, he didn’t always know what was going on in John’s mind. It was both refreshing and frustrating.

“I’m not going to apologize for the things that I do, Johnny boy. Most of the people that I kill are very bad people, and while the ones that I help aren’t often much better, crime pays very well and I like shiny things,” Jim said, punctuating his sentence with a smile. “Pretty things. Like you.”

John snorted. “I’ve never been called pretty before and you can’t buy my affections. I give them freely or not at all.”

“And I haven’t tried to buy them, have I, dearest?”

“No, you haven’t,” John said, his eyes on Jim’s, then equivocated. “Well, sort of. You showered me with gifts and affection, but when you thought I wasn’t paying attention you did it naturally.”

“And you’re saying the other things I did were unnatural?” Jim asked with a slight frown.

“Of course they were.” Jim took a sip of his tea as John continued, his attention firmly fixed on the doctor. “It was all artificial, manufactured. You wanted something—both the use of my hair and to woo me—so you did what you thought would get you me. I didn’t start to like you because you gave me presents—most of which I ignored—I started to like you because I got to know you better. Saw the other side of Jim Moriarty. It was what you didn’t entirely mean to do that mattered more than what you manufactured. I don’t take to meaningless flattery, I take to honesty.” His little speech done, he picked up his cup to take a sip of his tea and watch as Jim processed everything he said.

Externally, Jim made sure to seem like he was thinking about it all passively, but internally he was reeling. Things he hadn’t meant to do? But everything had been carefully calculated to achieve his goals, nothing had been accidental. Oh, but that wasn’t true, now was it? He’d already known that affection slipped out of its own accord around John. He’d seen the slips and dismissed them, saying it was just the act, just the act, just the act, but maybe it was more.

Surely the infatuation was to blame. It was just so goddamn easy to be affectionate with John. And really, considering it was what had started to win the doctor over, was it such a bad thing? Jim was really only upset because he hadn’t understood John or human emotions well enough to know the proper way to do it purposefully; he’d only been able to accomplish it by accident. And he never succeeded by _accident_. Apparently John Watson was just going to be the exception to every goddamn rule Jim set for himself. John, who was standing across the counter and calmly sipping his tea as if he wasn’t slowly unraveling the careful regulations of Jim’s life. Jim was starting to understand more and more why Sherlock had been so taken with the doctor; John was a challenge, as well as a surprise.

“So where do we go from here, Johnny boy?” Jim asked when he had sufficiently recovered from the aftershocks of the force of nature in his life known as John Watson. The man was more of a paradox than Jim himself.

“What d’you mean?” John asked, brow furrowing slightly as he looked at Jim.

“You like me, I’ve been courting you for weeks…”

“We’ve slept in the same bed and I’ve kissed you?” John completed for him in an amused tone. “God, so you mean we need to have _that_ talk.”

Jim’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. As he’d never actually been in a relationship and relied entirely on observations and research, the things John said as if they were obvious had a tendency to be lost on him. ‘That’ talk? How on earth was he supposed to know what specific discussion John thought they were going to have ahead of time out of an infinite number of possibilities? Now, sex…sex Jim understood. Relationships, he didn’t.

“‘That’ talk?” he repeated.

“Yeah, you know, the one where we talk about where this is going and what we both want, and decide on exclusivity and everything…” His voice trailed off as he realized Jim had no idea what he was talking about. “You and Sherlock, I swear to god…How can two men who are so brilliant be so absolutely clueless about important things like this?”

He shook his head, picking up his tea and carrying it off to the bedroom. Jim immediately followed behind, assuming this reaction didn’t bode well in the slightest. Though he didn’t like it when John left his line of sight period. John snorted when he saw Jim following him and said, “I’m about to take a shower and we’re definitely not at the place where you can join me in that.”

“You’re running away from our discussion, Johnny boy,” Jim said, a touch of reproach in his voice.

John smiled softly, not apologizing but placating, and it made something flutter in Jim’s chest. “I’m not running away, we can discuss it over dinner. If I’m going to try to explain feelings to you of all people, I need a break before I even start.” And he slipped into the bathroom before Jim could respond, closing and locking the door behind himself.

Jim considered picking the lock or having Seb break the door down for a few minutes before deciding that, no, John would most certainly not appreciate that and it wasn’t worth risking their huge amount of progress to A) start ‘that’ discussion, and B) see John naked. Though the latter reason was extremely compelling. And called to mind certain images that Jim had been trying to avoid, prompting him to hurry back into the kitchen to start cooking dinner in an effort to distract himself. Dinner didn’t exactly work for that, but running through the events of the day and all of the possibilities of the upcoming discussion with John did.

Because Jim was in an area he’d never been in before, and while John expressed a slight exasperation at having to teach Jim everything, it was more of an affectionate exasperation than anything. Jim didn’t like that John had the upper hand in this case, leaving him to follow the doctor’s lead in something that was essential to Jim’s plan. But at the same point in time, he was somewhat excited at the prospect of this discussion, wasn’t he? It was another step forward in his plan, yes, but the things that John had mentioned—exclusivity, what they both wanted, where this was going—set his stomach fluttering with a type of excited, nervous anticipation. Yes, yes, he wanted to have this talk. At least, he thought he wanted to have this talk. It was rather hard to decide when he hadn’t had it before, which was just another thing to add to the list of things that were different about John Watson. A list that was growing longer and longer by the day. Fuck. No, it was fine. He still had this all under control, even if John was going to have to lead him through this discussion, this important rung on the ladder of Jim’s success. Wasn’t John the prize at the top of that ladder?

Jim was drawn out of his circling thoughts by John’s emergence from the bedroom, his hair wet and his clothes changed to a casual t shirt and sweatpants. He looked adorable, and the casual nature of his outfit put Jim somewhat at ease. John looked relaxed, at ease, so clearly this couldn’t be a bad discussion. Okay. Jim could do this.

And then John smiled at him and Jim thought he’d melt on the spot. It was just so unfair for John to do that when he looked adorable and all of Jim’s thoughts had been revolving around the doctor for the past—well, for most of his time overall, actually. Somehow John had become his focal point, the place he returned to when his mind had a moment to spare for something that wasn’t work. And Jim didn’t find himself particularly alarmed by that. Probably because John was essential to taking down Sherlock, and Sherlock had been his focus for so long. John was different, though. John was always different.

“What are you making?” John asked, putting his empty tea cup in the sink.

“Orecchiette pasta with broccoli, sausage and pecorino Romano,” Jim answered. What he wouldn’t tell John, wouldn’t admit in the first place, was that it was a type of comfort food for him, a familiar, easy to make dish that soothed his nerves. He also thought that John would like it (knew that John would like it because he had extensive knowledge of his tastes) but that was a secondary thought.

John smiled at him, and his nerves fluttered in an almost sweet way. “Sounds good,” he said, taking a seat at the counter across from Jim so he could watch him work, something John seemed to enjoy doing.

They passed a few minutes in a silence that was nervous on Jim’s part and seemingly perfectly calm on John’s side. Jim buried himself in his work until he looked up and caught John’s blue eyes watching him, something more serious in their gaze. “You’re nervous,” he said, and Jim was alarmed that he was that transparent to John. He settled for just nodding slightly in answer, deciding it was better to not try to lie to the other man and knowing it would probably invite some of John’s sympathy, which he was almost never averse to having. John smiled in answer and Jim felt some of the pressure in his chest ease. “It’s really fine, Jim. Nothing scary. Though,” he said slowly, and the something squeezed his chest tight, “we do have one problem to talk about first. The biggest one.”

Jim’s eyes returned to his work as he said almost briskly, “And what’s that?”

“The fact that I’m still here against my will and everyone I love thinks I’m dead.”

Shit. Shit fuck shit fucking damn fucking shit—it was just a string of swears in a row in Jim’s head at the same time as he started panicking, terrified that this was the end of things with John. Well, the end of his game with John. That was what he meant.

“Jim, calm down,” John said evenly, and once again Jim wondered how the fuck he was so transparent at the moment and how he could change that. “I know you’re not letting me go. I can keep hoping you will, but you’re still a criminal and I’m still a hostage. I’ve made my peace with that.” He sighed slightly. “But if I start something with you here, it won’t be nearly the same as if I was free and we struck up a relationship. I’ll always hate being kept here, resent you for it in some way. It doesn’t matter how much I may like you or if my feelings went beyond that—” Jim’s heart skipped a beat “—I’ll still resent you for it. I haven’t forgotten that you were originally going to kill me.”

Jim found, much to his alarm, that he couldn’t speak for a moment, simply because he didn’t know what to say. Yes, that was the situation at hand, and yes, he understood what John was saying and the other man was completely justified in how he felt about it, but it still hurt. Yes, hurt, that was the right classification for it. It _hurt_ that John felt that way, that he was going to continue to feel that way. Jim tried to pass it off as he was just concerned about winning John over for his plan when John felt this way, but he knew he couldn’t. There was no way that was the real reason, he knew it was a lie, and the fact that he didn’t know why this hurt made it so much worse. Logic and reason couldn’t explain these things away, couldn’t explain away any of the things he felt around John, and it was starting to make him worried.

“So what does that mean for us?” Jim managed to say after a minute, his brown eyes locked on John’s pretty blues, his nails scratching lightly at the countertop in an effort to relieve some of tension he was feeling.

John seemed to study him for a minute and Jim didn’t like it one bit. He wanted to go back to the couch. He wanted to go back to the hug, to John’s hair, to the kiss. He didn’t want whatever this was causing. But he did want John. “It means that we can still try something, if you’d like. It’ll be difficult, and it sure as hell won’t be normal, but we can try it. Because somehow, against my better judgment—” and that twisted a little barb in Jim’s chest “—I started liking you and you’ve said you like me too. Usually what follows is dating, and while the way we’re going about it is completely unorthodox, everything about us is pretty unorthodox, isn’t it?” he said, and smiled at Jim. The pressure eased once again, enough that he could smile slightly back. “So. Ready for this?”

Jim nodded, though he still wasn’t sure what ‘this’ entailed. All he knew was it still hurt to think about how John saw the situation but it also felt warm and wonderful that John wanted to pursue something anyway.

“Okay,” John said, and his brow furrowed slightly. “I’ve never really had to explain this to anyone before, so bear with me. Really we just have to decide what we both want out of this. How we’ll make it work. So it’s things like do we want to be exclusive—which I don’t really have a choice in, do I?—whether we’re looking for something very casual, or something more serious. A lot of it doesn’t really apply considering our situation. I can’t go anywhere so I can’t really date anyone else, can I, but we can certainly talk about what kind of relationship we want.”

“If you’re worried about me dating, I won’t,” Jim said. “As a rule I don’t date.”

“Wait, never?” John asked, brow furrowed, and Jim shook his head.

“People usually bore me, Johnny boy, and I don’t have any interest in romance. Except with you.” It was the act that made those words sound so true to him. The act.

John looked at him for a minute, brow dropped low, before raising his eyebrows and leaning back slightly. “So you must want to casually date, then,” he said, and it was Jim’s turn to furrow his brow.

“What’s the difference?” he asked.

John thought for a minute. “Well, casual relationships can mean a lot of things. Usually it just means that you don’t have a clear vision of a future for the relationship, just want to have fun and don’t necessarily involve serious emotions in it. You don’t have to be committed to a person, just want to have fun with them.”

Yes, that sounded like what Jim would actually do if he was ever going to date. Easy, casual, no emotions attached, he could enjoy physicality but not hold on to anyone. But that wasn’t what he wanted with John. He _knew_ that wasn’t what he wanted with John. Well, of course it wasn’t. He wanted John to fall in love with him so he could destroy him, and a casual relationship wouldn’t help him with that. So he shook his head, and something in John’s eyes changed. “No, I don’t want that, love,” he said. “I just want you.”

John’s face seemed to soften in response, and Jim found himself smiling slightly at the sight, John returning the smile a moment later. “Alright,” he said. “So I guess we’re giving this a real go.”

“If you want that too, Johnny boy,” Jim said, the anxiety giving a stuttered start again at the question implied in that statement.

But John smiled, and leaned over the counter to kiss his cheek before he said, “Yes, I think I do.”

And Jim went back to cooking dinner with a smile on his face and they slipped back into that easy conversation they’d gotten so good at recently, though there was an undercurrent there now, hints of flirtation at the edges that made Jim happier than he’d say. Yes! Yes yes yes yes he was doing so well and everything was progressing so sweetly. He didn’t quite have John yet, because he had to make sure the man actually loved him before destroying him, but he still had John in a capacity that made him happy, that kept him content for the time being.

Because things changed after that. Of course things changed after that, they were no longer flatmates but now something else, though Jim didn’t have a label for it. Sure, they were officially dating, but that didn’t mean he could fit a title to it. John hadn’t called him his boyfriend or anything—as high school as that sounded—and they hadn’t talked about a label for it. He could think of John as his boyfriend if he wanted, and even if that didn’t quite apply, he could certainly think of John as _his_. Because John was slowly giving himself over to him piece by piece, and Jim took each one greedily and asked for more, needing everything he could get of John. Though he was getting plenty, at the moment.

For one thing, John now slept against him every night, settling down against him as soon as they got into bed as if it was just normal, routine, and finally Jim’s heart seemed to adjust to the contact, learning to expect it so it wouldn’t beat out of his chest when it happened. Casual, affectionate contact between them increased in general, gentle touches and hand-holding and curling close to each other on the couch as Jim played with John’s hair to his heart’s content, though it was never enough, it seemed. He drank in each moment of contact with John, savored it for the treasure that it was. Because he knew that John wasn’t used to this, was still adjusting to dating a man, and more than that, dating _Jim_ of all people. Sometimes Jim would catch John just standing somewhere, a slightly puzzled expression on his face and his brow dipped slightly, seemingly lost in thought. He’d always shake himself out of it, go back to whatever it was he’d been doing, but that adorable puzzled expression seemed to stick for a while afterwards. It was cute, in a way. How confused by himself he seemed.

But the best, oh, the very best thing was the kisses. Because now that that particular barrier had been breached, there was no reason why they wouldn’t do it again. Why Jim couldn’t just claim John’s lips anytime he felt like it, in any way he felt like. Sweet kisses, passionate kisses, soft kisses, lazy kisses, sloppy kisses, hard kisses, heated kisses, any and all kinds were open to him and he took full advantage, pressing John back against the nearest available surface and giving him a kiss in whatever flavor he decided he felt like today. Sometimes it was soft, delicate, even chaste, just gentle presses of their lips together with a sweetness that John didn’t seem to expect from him. Other times it was heated and frenetic, all tongue and teeth and hands everywhere as Jim fully expressed the fire that was brewing inside of him, the slow flames of desire that licked their way up his spine when he least expected it, spurred on by a look from John, or a touch, or simply his own imagination.

But here was where he had to be careful. Because as passionate as these kisses were, as much as John reciprocated them—usually with equal fervor—he would always pull back before they went too far. He’d become accustomed to Jim’s hands roaming his chest and settling on his hips, but the second Jim reached for his belt that was it, he was done, and he would pull away again with that same apologetic smile he’d given Jim the first time they’d kissed. And it was infuriating.

Because how long was this going to go on? Why couldn’t he have that one final component to their relationship, the one area that he was actually good at? He liked sex, he was very good at sex, he was sure that it would only add to winning over John.

But John kept pulling away, kept shutting him down, and he was starting to lose patience. His mind had been running over scenarios for weeks, nearly months now, and he needed some sort of consummation, needed to have John this way, needed _John_. And John wasn’t letting him have him. Which didn’t make much sense, honestly. He knew that John had a very active libido, and had heard him wanking multiple times through his bugs in the bathroom, so clearly he did want something. But for whatever reason, he was putting Jim off, letting him get close enough to taste him before pulling back again. God John Watson was a complicated, infuriating creature.

And then one day, something magical happened.

John gave in.

It happened out of the blue. They’d been ‘official’ for a few weeks, what seemed like an eternity to Jim considering his limited—zero—previous experience with relationships, but was actually a short time. It hadn’t felt like an eternity in a bad way, though. He’d found himself enjoying it, actually, taking full advantage of everything it offered him, everything John offered him. It made him feel…warm. When he thought about it. And them. And exactly what they had. He couldn’t explain the feelings in his chest when he thought about it, the happy sort of fluttering that always seemed to accompany his thoughts of John. Inexplicable.

But then again, that was John, wasn’t it? A complete and total surprise that had pretty much crash landed into his life and changed it completely, though he didn’t like to consider whether it was better  now or not, because he knew the answer to that question. And as usual with John, the answer was dangerous. John was dangerous, with the mild— _mild_ —obsession that Jim had towards him that was making his decision making process go haywire.

Because being with John made it that much harder to go about his business as usual. All he could think about was how John would feel about it, the disapproving look in those blue eyes if he knew exactly what Jim got up to in his time away from the flat, at work. It was hard to conduct a torture session when all he could think about was John, John, _John_ , and what he would think. How he would react if he could see this. Jim ended up walking out of more sessions than he cared to count, delegating a task that he used to take great pleasure in. Now he derived his pleasure solely, it seemed, from John. From his hair, and his smile, and his laugh, and his lips. From everything that John was, everything that he was giving to him now that they had taken that next step and he was closer to his goal.

Right. The goal. The goal that was the only reason why he had any of this in the first place, the only reason why John was still alive at all and here, and his. His. That was another thing that he didn’t like to think about for too long; what he was going to do once he broke John. He still had the same two choices as before; give him back to Sherlock, broken—the original goal—or keep him for himself, but the decision wasn’t any easier. Once upon a time he would have broken John without a second thought. But now…

Now he found it thrilling when his lips touched John’s, having cornered him back against the fridge this time for one of the more heated kisses. His hands were slipping under John’s shirt at his hips, playing with the smooth, soft skin he found there and sliding along John’s chest. John, for his part, had wrapped his arms around Jim’s neck, one hand holding onto a handful of Jim’s brown hair to hold him in place. Jim was hungry for him and wasn’t making it a secret, using more teeth and tongue than anything, his lips traveling across John’s jaw to his neck, nipping at the soft skin that he found there and sucking until he heard a gasp from John’s lips, a hitch in his breathing. He went back to soft kisses again, letting his lips trail up John’s neck to his ear so he could breathe, “I want you, Johnny boy.”

John’s response didn’t come for a minute, the only sound the sound of their breathing, slightly labored, in the stillness of the kitchen. “Then have me,” John said, and the hand he had on Jim’s hip tightened. “I love you, Jim.”

Jim pulled back to look at him, astonished for once in his life. That was…that was…that was surrender. Capitulation. _He’d won_. John—John—John _loved_ him. For some reason it didn’t go through the first time he tried to understand it. Something in his heart clenched at the same time as his brain stuttered to a stop, refusing to comprehend what he’d just heard, because that was ridiculous. John couldn’t love him. John couldn’t love damaged, unbalanced, morally repugnant criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty. He was too good for that, too good to feel that way about Jim and there was just no way—but he’d said it. _I love you, Jim_. Those words had actually sparked in his brain, formed on his tongue and passed his lips, and now hung in the air between them, carrying a certain weight to them that Jim didn’t want to comprehend.

 

 

Xacquire John Watson  

Xsteal his heart

Xturn him against Sherlock Holmes

-destroy him

 

He was one step away from victory. One tiny little step, and he would win, he would finally be the victor in this drawn out game with Sherlock because John was Sherlock’s heart and he could burn him right now, destroy him with just a few little words. He was so close to winning. So why didn’t it feel like it?

Why did it feel, instead, like his heart was going to burst, like he was going to choke on the flood of emotions rising up in his chest, like the only thing in the world that mattered was those three little words John had said like a confession, like a secret only meant for Jim’s ears? Why were those same words rising in his throat, a reciprocation on the tip of his tongue that he didn’t mean, surely he didn’t mean. He couldn’t mean that. He couldn’t actually, honestly, be in love with John Watson, no, this was all just a part of the act, this was all just a trick. He didn’t love him. No. He _couldn’t_. Then why was he having trouble forming words, why was he holding back on delivering the final blow, why couldn’t he just fucking do it already??? No, this was unacceptable, he could do this. He _had_ to do this, or there would be no point to all of this. No point to getting closer to John, no point to the kisses and the touches and the cuddles at night and fuck he couldn’t do this. No, _no_ , he could, he could he could he could he could he could!

“Jim?”

Oh god. John’s voice was so soft. So hesitant. And all the more powerful for that. Jim had to take a deep breath, looking at the ground before he dared to look up into John’s eyes. John looked…confused, mostly. Concerned as well, with a touch of hurt around the edges, like he was afraid that Jim wasn’t going to reciprocate. That he didn’t reciprocate at all. God, those eyes only made this that much harder. He didn’t want to hurt John. Didn’t want to do anything that would cause those blue eyes to look at him like they used to, before they properly knew each other, before he wrapped John around his finger. Only he hadn’t, had he? He’d been the one that had been wrapped. _No!_ God fucking damn it he was not under the power of John fucking Watson. He had the power here, he was in control, this was his time. He was going to seize victory, and seize it now before his traitor heart gave out in his chest.

He forced his face to set into a mask, a playful, faux sympathetic smile falling into place on his lips as he took a step back from John. “Oh, Johnny boy,” he said, the words nearly purred. “I hate to break it to you this way. But I’m afraid I haven’t been quite truthful with you.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, a certain kind of caution in his tone.

Something grabbed Jim’s heart and squeezed it tight, his next inhale accidentally shaky. What the fuck was wrong with him? He had to do this. There was no other choice. If he didn’t, all of his work would be for nothing, and John—well John would be fine. Didn’t he want John to be fine? No, he wanted him to be broken, he wanted to break him he wanted to ruin him for Sherlock Holmes he wanted to take him apart but no no no he didn’t want that at all. What did he want? Fuck, he had to do it. Right? There was no other choice but to do it, he had already started and oh god John was going to hate him after this and the something holding onto his heart twisted it painfully, tangibly, and he put a hand to his chest as it started to ache.

“Jim, are you alright?” John asked, his brow furrowing, and Jim yanked his hand away from his chest, realizing he’d slipped out of his practiced smile. He carefully pasted it back on again, careful, so careful that none of his feelings—those goddamn detestable things—made their way into his expression.

“I don’t love you, John.” There. He’d gotten them out. Those, at least, were out there, but was it his imagination or did they sound hollow? He was having a hard time blaming the act this time. He was having a hard time with everything right now. “I never have, in fact.” His voice was calculated to be cool, his tone almost dismissive, but inside everything hurt and he didn’t know why anymore, just wanted it to stop. “I’ve been lying to you this whole time, manipulating you. You mean _nothing_ to me. I never loved you, and I never will.”

Each word had been like a razor blade on his tongue. Sharp, cutting, and nearly deadly. But they felt more dangerous to him than to John, and he didn’t know why, why why why why why John made everything so confusing and twisted and fucked up and god damn it why was he afraid to look at John right now? Why was he being swallowed by this terrible feeling of dread as he watched John’s features, waiting for the reaction that he knew was soon to come? He wanted to look away. He wanted to look anywhere but into the pretty sapphire eyes, do anything but watch that special light they had when John saw him go out. But he was rooted to the spot, waiting for John’s reaction to finally pronounce his victory, an accomplishment that now felt hollow, meaningless. Who cared about Sherlock Holmes anymore? All he cared about was John.

John looked at him for a minute, his brow still furrowed over his eyes and his mouth slightly open as if he was still confused, still in the middle of processing things. Jim waited anxiously, the silence between them heavy, filled with John’s declaration as well as Jim’s big reveal, making the air they were both breathing thicker. Or maybe it was just that Jim’s lungs had decided to stop working, limiting him to short, nervous breaths as he waited for John’s reaction.

And then John looked back up at him.

And laughed.

Jim stared at him, his own brow furrowing now as he watched John laugh, deep, hearty laughs that came from his core and made his body shake with the force of them. He didn’t stop at a few, either; he was laughing for a solid minute, leaning back against the fridge and just letting it go. Jim watched him, John’s eyes away from his as he leaned his head back against the fridge and kept going, kept laughing, it seemed, at Jim. He wound down slowly, the last few chuckles dying out as he looked back at Jim, a grin staying fixed on his lips.

“Oh, Jim,” he said, and laughed again. “Of course you do. You’re in love with me, you idiotic git, no matter what you may be telling yourself now. I knew.” He paused, his smile still on his lips, though it turned a bit gentler. “I knew you were trying to manipulate me into falling for you, but you fell too. It’s been so obvious, in everything that you do, everything that you say. You’ve proven to me over and over again that you love me, and you thought you were kidding every time you did it. I mean, really, Jim? I expected more out of a genius.”

He was completely at a loss for words. He couldn’t do much more than stare at John, shocked, stunned, knocked completely off balance by what John had said. No. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. _He_ was the one that had won here, he was in control, this was his victory and John wasn’t about to take it away from him with some bullshit lie that he’d concocted to save himself from heartbreak. No, no, no, this wasn’t how this was supposed to go, John was supposed to break now, supposed to fold, supposed to do anything other than laugh and say that Jim was in love with him.

Because it simply wasn’t true. No, it couldn’t be true. There was just no way, no no no no no—he tried to speak and failed, unsure of what he was even going to say. A terrible anger was uncoiling in his chest, rising up to take the place of the shock that was starting to wear off. Just for a moment—one tiny moment—he wanted to hurt John. Wanted to yell at him, wanted to scream, wanted to rave and rant about how wrong he was and exactly how much control he had, how he could order a team in here and have him strapped to a table for torture in a matter of minutes, how he could tear his entire world apart with just a few phone calls. He wanted to hurt John, because if he did, he wouldn’t actually have to think about his words, and whether or not they were true. Because that wasn’t a path he wanted to go down, an option that he could even consider. He didn’t have _feelings_. He didn’t fall in love with anyone, it wasn’t possible, and John should be hurt for saying such things.

But he didn’t do anything to hurt him. Didn’t scream, didn’t threaten, didn’t insult. He held back the hissing anger in his chest, keeping it tightly coiled so he wouldn’t do anything to John. And without a word, he turned and walked out of the flat.  

It was good that John didn’t try to come after him. He wasn’t honestly sure what he would have done if John had followed him, whether he would have hurt him or screamed at him or fucking kissed him, of all things. Everything was mixed up and confusing and he was choking on sentiment, the painful emotions in his chest rising into his throat and blocking air from properly getting through, and god, was this how Sherlock had felt? Was this what it’d been like for him the day he sent John away, the day John ended up with his head in Jim’s lap and Jim’s hand in his hair? Was this the same emotion that had accompanied all of the detective’s interactions with John, bridged every conversation and casual touch and fleeting glance? Because god, suddenly Jim understood everything. He could understand why Sherlock would have saved John, because it felt like drowning. John Watson was an ocean in his own right, and both geniuses had gotten lost in his depths, drowned in his eyes and floated to the bottom of his smile.

And god, it was true, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to say it aloud, didn’t even want to _think_ it, but John was right, wasn’t he? Because what other explanation could there be for this? What could explain the way he felt when he was around John, the warmth in his body and the fluttering in his heart? What could explain the way John occupied his mind at all hours of the day and night? What could explain how it felt to hold John at night, not the physical sensation of their bodies being pressed together—though that was wonderful as well—but the protective instinct that suddenly rose up, driving him to want to protect John from everything in this world, including from Jim himself? What could explain how Jim had gone from considering killing him to deciding that if he had been in the same situation as Sherlock, he would have done the same thing? He had been prepared to sacrifice himself to save John, and god, there was only one explanation for all of this. There was only one way to explain how he felt around John, his behaviors towards him, and John’s response to him.

He was in love with John Watson.

Jim walked as far away from the flat as he could, no real sense of direction to his movements, just the need to get out, get away, escape for the time being. He needed time and space to handle this, and he certainly couldn’t have that if John was around. John just mucked up everything in his brain, made it hard for him to think and even harder for him to make decisions. He ended up outside of the building entirely, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk as he pushed open the glass doors that fronted the building. Outside the sunshine was bright, nearly blinding, and all he could think about was the sunny flat and the way John’s hair looked in the sunlight, the various golden tones it took on, streaked through with a soft gray that wasn’t quite silver. Ash blonde. Right, that was what he’d called it before. Oh god, he nearly laughed at that. He should have realized how far gone he was, judging by how he was naming the colors in John’s hair and memorizing every detail about him and remembering his preferences just so John would smile and categorizing each one of those smiles so he knew every meaning and watching John just so he could understand him better and also because he just loved to see him move, see him live, see him _exist_. Yes, he liked to just breathe in John’s existence, and god, he was such a goner, wasn’t he?

Outside of the building, he hesitated on the pavement for a moment because he wasn’t sure exactly where he was going. For once he didn’t have a guard, didn’t have an escort with him to ensure his safety, not even Sebastian. Though he was sure he would be followed in just a few minutes, it was inevitable. But right now he didn’t want to face Sebastian or that flat, knowing stare, so he picked a direction and started walking, knowing he’d figure it out as he went and not particularly caring where he ended up. He just needed to get away for the time being, though no matter how far he walked, he wouldn’t be able to get away from the truth that John had revealed to him, the simple realization that had shattered his entire world.

He should have known. God, he should have known, how could he not have known! He prided himself on being able to understand human emotion, even if he himself didn’t experience the whole gamut. He could identify in a second if someone was in love with someone else, it was almost a game that he played with himself. It was one of the easiest things to tell when making deductions, because when someone was really in love, it was all over them. In their face, in their expressions, in their body language, in their voice. It was easy enough to tell if they were just by themselves or with a friend, but oh, if they were with the object of their affections, you didn’t have to be a genius to tell that they were in love. Their entire face lit up, their body language dramatically changed, they were suddenly an entirely different person because of _sentiment_.

It was still nearly a curse word in his head. A banned concept, a disease that he’d thought he was immune to because he’d fought it off for so long and it hadn’t seemed like he was in any danger of falling to it anytime soon. That was, until John strode into his life and turned everything into chaos just by being himself. His wonderful, charming, adorable self. And just like that, Jim wanted to turn around and walk back. Walk home. Home, where John would be waiting for him, no doubt sitting at the counter with a mug of tea and a slightly confused expression, his brow dipped low, his blue eyes lighting up when he saw Jim because they did that for some reason, because he apparently loved Jim, for some reason.

Right. John said that he’d loved him. But what if he had been lying? What if he had just been manipulating Jim like Jim was trying to manipulate him, making Jim fall in love with him while thinking he had the upper hand and then pulling the rug out from under him, winning by revealing Jim’s feelings and then saying that he didn’t have any in return? Maybe that was why he’d started laughing when Jim said he didn’t love him, maybe this was all just a trick and John was really the one who’d been pretending the entire time. But John wouldn’t do that. Would he?

No, not the John Watson that he knew. Not the strong, dependable, honest, earnest John who had smiled so sweetly at him and returned his kisses so sincerely and allowed him so close to him. No, John was telling him the truth, he was sure of it. And not because he wanted to believe it—though oh god, he did—but because he knew John. Yes. Yes, he knew John—which was wonderful in and of itself—and he knew that he was telling the truth. So John really did love him then.

All of a sudden, it was like a switch had been flipped. The emotion that had been weighing heavily on his chest began to rise, until he was feeling light enough that he was positive he was bound to lift off the ground at any moment in time. Joy. This was joy, right? Yes, he knew this one, though it was rarely a friend to him. He was being filled with inexplicable joy and it was lifting him up, bringing an unconscious smile to his lips as he walked.

Because John _loved_ him.

John really, truly, honestly loved him, had meant everything he said, everything he’d done, every kiss and touch and gentle smile. He had meant all of it, and had meant all of it towards Jim. John loved him despite all of his faults, despite what he did for a living, despite the mistakes he’d made in the past and what he’d done to _John_ in the past. God, it was absolutely amazing when he thought about it. Because he’d never really considered—never really thought—he’d never believed that anyone was actually able to love him. Well, it wasn’t exactly a question that he’d dwelled on. He’d always thought himself above feelings, safe from them and the mess they made of most people. So he’d never really paused to consider whether someone could ever feel emotions like love towards him. No one in his life had ever shown signs of it before, certainly his parents never had, so why would he even think about it? Love was a chemical defect that made people soft, sloppy, and weak, and he was blessed to be immune to it.

But when he actually thought about it, there was no reason why John should love him. He’d killed people before, tortured innocent men, blackmailed governments, stolen national secrets, for god’s sake, he’d actually strapped John into a bomb vest and threatened both his life and the life of his best friend. He’d openly confessed to having considered killing John the night that Sherlock asked him to, the night that started this whole thing. And still John loved him. Somehow, John had forgiven him his indiscretions, taken a look into his heart, and decided he was worthy of his love. And that was a large part of where the joy was coming from, because even if he had thought about whether or not anyone was capable of loving him, he certainly wouldn’t have thought that he was worthy of John’s love.

Because John was amazing. Clean and pure and bright and absolutely amazing, and everything that Jim didn’t deserve. He enhanced Jim’s genius, made him better than he was on his own, and didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it. It was amazing, actually, how much John did for him without realizing it. He’d heard Jim’s history, the sad story he never told anyone, and offered him pure empathy in return, comforting him even though Jim didn’t feel that he needed comfort. It had made him feel better, so much better about the dark patch that was his childhood that he couldn’t share with anyone for fear of it being used against him. John had made old hurts feel better just by being there for Jim, and hadn’t even realized what he was doing at the time. God John was truly amazing, wasn’t he? Unbelievably so, and Jim stopped right in the middle of the street, someone nearly running into him and cursing as they went past.

He should go back. He didn’t need time, or space. What he needed was to see John, soak in his presence, breathe in his existence once again. John would make him feel better, would make things clearer for him, would just make everything better. Yes, that was what he needed. Right? Why was he wasting time by running away? He wasn’t a coward, just because he hadn’t experienced this before didn’t mean that he had to run away from it.

Because yes, loathe as he was to admit it, it was mildly frightening. John held a certain type of power over him, an ability to convince him to do certain things and stay away from others. It had already shown up before, when just the thought of John’s disapproving gaze had dragged him from torture sessions, forced him to delegate tasks to his underlings because he would feel slightly better about it if he didn’t do it himself. John held sway over him, and he had never given anyone any power over him before, nor had they been able to take any from him. This was…new. He wasn’t sure he was quite prepared for it, or that it was good, but he didn’t really have a choice in the matter. John had come into his life like a storm, a force of nature, and he was just trying to pick up the pieces after that storm had finally quieted to a gentle, calming drizzle.

He did end up turning back. He needed to, in the end, because the thought of John sitting alone in the flat, waiting for him to come back…no, he needed to go back. Try John’s version of things, “talking about it”. God, _feelings_. He still wasn’t happy about having them in the first place. He was supposed to be above all of this, immune, but—but wasn’t it better this way? When he thought about John, those same feelings returned, the warm fluttering in his heart, the friendly quickening of his pulse, the instant urge to smile. It was hard to imagine being without those feelings, now that he’d grown so accustomed to them. Begun to see them as a good thing, rather than a mysterious affliction that came from being in John’s presence and hit him from out of nowhere.

And he did…well, he did actually like these feelings. They were nice. Even when they were intense enough to hurt, causing a tangible, physical pain in his chest. No one had ever told him that he could love someone so much that it hurt. He hadn’t even known he was capable of love at all. That was another way that John had thrown his life into tumult, had waltzed in and changed everything without Jim even being aware of it. Jim had never thought that he actually had the capacity to love someone, could want to spend the rest of his life with a person, devote his own life to them.

But that was what he wanted with John. Undeniably, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with John, and god did it feel good to imagine that. Domestic bliss, similar to what they’d had before, only more honest now that everything was out in the open for them. Now that he could actually—sort of—accept his feelings for John, be honest about his love for him. God, it was so strange to think of himself as in love with someone. It just wasn’t something he’d ever imagined for himself, something he’d seen as realistic. But there it was. He was impossibly, irrevocably, insanely in love with John Watson. And god did it feel good.

John was exactly where he’d imagined him when he entered the flat, sitting on the couch and looking down at his hands as he spread one out, flexing it before putting it back into a fist. A sign of anxiety, no doubt, and Jim felt guilty for causing it. He still wasn’t used to guilt as an emotion either. John looked up when he came in, the only emotion clear in his eyes for Jim to read relief, and Jim hesitated, hovering in the doorway because he didn’t know what to do. What to say. How to fix the mess he’d unwittingly made.

But was it really a mess? In some aspects, yes, yes it was. He’d admitted to John that he’d tried to fool him all along, had been trying to destroy him from the start. Sure, he’d failed, but that didn’t change what his initial intentions were. It was as bad as admitting that at first, he’d been planning to kill John. It was a remnant of the past version of him that John had slowly whittled into something new, the version of himself that could still face tortures without guilt, could still run his empire without any remorse, could actually hurt John. Now, that was an impossibility. Just the thought of hurting John, whether intentionally or not, caused something to clench tightly in his chest, a thread of sick worry drawing tight and _pulling_ , tugging on his heart. No, he could never hurt John. Never _would_ hurt John, if he could avoid it.

And he wanted to say that now. Wanted to tell John everything, that he was in love with him and that he was sorry and that he’d never hurt him and that this was all his fault and that he’d been wrong, so wrong about everything and that there was nothing he wanted more than a future with John and that he hoped he hadn’t burned the last bridge between them because he needed a second, or third, or fourth chance with him like oxygen because he needed John to live.

But nothing would come out. Every word stuck in his throat like glue, making his throat hurt with each passing second that he didn’t speak, making it harder and harder to open his mouth and let the words that he so desperately needed to say fall out. John deserved to hear them, _needed_ to hear them, and goddamnit he was going to fuck this up simply because he couldn’t spoke. He, who always had something to say, always had some sort of snappy comeback, was at a complete loss for words, drowning once more in the blue of John Watson’s eyes.

But John smiled softly, looking back down at his hand for a moment before his eyes flashed back up to Jim’s. “It’s okay, Jim,” he said, his tone gentle. “I know.”

Oh thank god. Jim nearly collapsed out of relief, instead taking a few shaky steps into the flat and sinking into a seat on the couch next to John, unable to keep the relief off of his features. It was so good just to see John smiling at him like that, see that he wasn’t angry or upset or heartbroken or hurt. He was emotionally and intellectually intelligent, so of course he understood everything Jim wanted to, but couldn’t say. John had been able to read his mind from the very beginning, and Jim was only seeing that now. He’d been so blind.

John turned to face him more fully, reaching out to rest his hand on Jim’s knee and oh, did that contact, light as it was, feel so good. It was reassuring, really, letting him know that John meant everything he’d said and done, and still did.

“I love you, Jim,” John said, brow furrowed slightly over cornflower blue eyes as he looked at Jim, his expression serious. “And I do want to be with you. But the same thing that started this relationship is getting in the way.”

“What?” Jim asked tremulously, his voice far weaker than he’d like it to be. Goddamn sentiment.

John sighed, withdrawing his hand again, and that actually hurt. “I’m still a captive here. And everyone I love thinks I’m dead.” He paused, taking a deep breath and turning his eyes back to Jim. “If you love me, you have to let me go.”

No. No no no no no, he couldn’t do that. If he let John go, then there was no guarantee that he was going to come back to him. John could leave him forever, run away with Sherlock and pretend that everything that’d happened here hadn’t happened at all. Jim’s heart twisted painfully at the thought, a sickened jealousy making its way into his stomach and up his throat at the thought of John returning to live with Sherlock, the man who had sacrificed his fragile heart to keep John alive. What if John fell in love with Sherlock instead? What if John thanked Sherlock for protecting him using his body, or his heart, or—or—

No, god no, he didn’t want to let him go. He liked things the way they were now, with both of them inside this protected little bubble where he had control over the situation and could watch over John. This flat had become like a home for them, the place he always looked forward to returning to at the end of the day, filled with the person that he always looked forward to returning to. He’d never had a home before, not really, but here, with John, he did. Here, they were together, safe, allowed to just exist in each other’s space, with everything that brought with it, all the privileges and difficulties and everything together, and it was all worth it. Anything was worth it to be with John, and this flat was part of it. What would he do when he had no guarantee that John would be here waiting for him every time he came home? What would he do when he had no guarantee of having John at all?

“Jim.” Jim was pulled back into awareness by the sound of John’s voice, gentle but firm. His light brown eyes drifted up, back to John’s, and he saw a knowing look in that blue gaze. “I know what you’re thinking, but you can’t keep me here forever. A relationship built on this…it’s not a relationship at all. Not the kind you want to have, anyway. You have to let me go if you want to have me at all.”

Jim didn’t answer, internal gears churning as he tried to come up with an answer, tried to come up with some sort of solution that didn’t involve John leaving, and John sighed, gaze flicking down to the couch before going back to Jim’s eyes.

“If you let me go, I’ll come back,” he said, and something in Jim’s heart lifted. “I promise you. I’ll need to sort things out, get back into a normal life, but I will come back, Jim.”

Jim looked at him, unable to express or explain the sheer amount of hope filling his chest at the thought of John willingly coming back to him. Letting him go would be worth it, if he came back to Jim. That would prove everything, make the love that John swore more real. It would soothe the anxiety lingering at the back of Jim’s head that said that John was lying to him, didn’t really love him. But this was the test, wasn’t it? If he let him go, would John come back to him?

“Promise?” he asked softly, and John nodded.

“Promise,” he said, leveling Jim with a serious gaze, something that promised how sincere he was in this.

So Jim took a deep breath, and nodded. If he wanted John, he had to let him go. As much as he hated it, he knew John was right. This wouldn’t be the relationship he wanted it to be if he didn’t let John come back to him on his own. Assuming he did come back, which was the nerve-wracking part. What if John didn’t come back at all? What if he had played Jim, manipulated his emotions simply to get out of the situation? What if Jim was so, so wrong, and he was going to be killed by sentiment, felled by a broken heart, destroyed by one man and the love that he’d shown Jim, the addiction to compassion that he hadn’t even noticed forming?

But he let him go anyway.

And a week later, John came back.


End file.
